Shadow of the Lion

"There are how many factions?" said Erik, weakly.

She smiled. "In Venice? Where there are three people together, at least five factions are gathered! The Venetian Republic is worse than elsewhere because Venice sits a jewel between so many interests. It is the key to the Mediterranean. And the key to the East. Emeric, the King of Hungary, Milan, Rome, the Holy Roman Emperor . . . all want Venice--or, at least, the riches which pour through the city. The Ilkhan Mongols have their own interests, also, as do the Greeks. Even the Grand Duke of Lithuania . . . just to stir up trouble, or to flank the Holy Roman Empire. And that is without the interests of the Church and its various factions, and the Strega, and the Jews. I think the latter just want a quiet life, but both factions have money for whoever will offer to leave them alone." She laughed throatily. "It's a quiet little town. I love it, even more than I did my native Orleans."

Erik sighed. "I want to go back to Iceland. At least you only had to worry about someone trying to kill you. This is all too complicated for me."

Manfred smiled. "Why don't we get some lessons from this swordmaster's salle? I don't think us going to visit this Caesare Aldanto fellow is a good idea."

Erik drew a deep breath. "I still think a visit is called for."

Francesca laughed. "What ill came of it, Erik? I thought it was the Italians who believed in vendetta?"

Manfred laughed. "Compared to Icelandic clan feudists? Not even in the same league, Francesca! And Erik's got humiliation to avenge as well as a simple attempt on his life. Aldanto's the man responsible for getting him under your sweet thighs, don't forget."

Francesca chucked the unfortunate Erik under the chin. "Poor man. It must have been so hard for you."

Erik got hastily to his feet, amid Manfred's guffaws. "I think it's time we talked to Von Gherens."

"Coward," grinned Manfred. "You talk to him. I'm going to stay here and take my punishment like a man."

* * *

Von Gherens was willing. So were the four young Ritters he spoke to.

Gerhard Bach was downright avid.

* * *

Fortunately, the abbot was sequestered in private discussion with Sister Ursula when the Schiopettieri barge arrived at the embassy in mid-afternoon. Erik thought Sachs would probably have had a fit if he'd seen eight armored knights wrestling a bombard into the Venetian vessel. Even a small one.

The knight-proctor Von Stublau did pitch a fit. But with the official authority of Sachs on his side--as attested to vehemently by Manfred and Erik--Von Gherens simply ignored Von Stublau's protestations.

"Take it up with the abbot!" snapped Von Gherens. "Better make it quick, too. We're leaving."

Fuming angrily, the Prussian knight-proctor stormed back into the embassy. Von Gherens, grinning, turned to his knights and said: "Let's go. Just in case Von Stublau develops the nerve to interrupt Sachs and Sister Ursula."

"He'd better knock first," muttered Manfred, not quite under his breath. Two of the younger knights chuckled softly. Erik frowned.

"That's in very bad taste," he growled.

"Not as bad as Sister Ursula, I'll bet," responded Manfred cheerfully. The two young knights burst into outright laughter.

Erik sighed. Once again, reproving Manfred had proven to be as useful as pouring naphtha on a bonfire. . . .

* * *

The barge carrying Erik and Manfred met up with the rest of Dorma's flotilla not far from Casa Dandelo. It was quite an impressive show of force, even before the Knights and their bombard arrived: three barges packed with Schiopettieri, and another three coming behind. The last three, to Erik's surprise, were empty except for skeleton crews. He wondered as to their purpose.

As soon as Dorma's barge came alongside, Petro hopped into Erik's vessel. The easy and nimble way he moved reminded Erik how young Lord Dorma was--not yet forty, he'd heard--for a high Venetian notable. The man's bald head, pudgy build, and judicious manner normally made him seem older.

"I'll ride the rest of the way with you," Petro announced, smiling. "I believe I should, since I'm officially in charge of this--ah, I believe we're still calling it an 'investigation.' And you'll be spearheading the--ah, I believe I'll call it an 'entry.' "

He eyed the little bombard. "Can you fire that from the bow of the boat?"

Gerhard Bach looked indignant. "Are you cra--" He broke off, coughing, as if he'd just remembered he was addressing a high-ranking Venetian official rather than a young knight-squire. "Ah, no. Sir. That'd be a very bad idea. The recoil would probably hull the barge. It's not designed to be a gun platform."

Dorma frowned. "Then how--"

"I'll figure something out," replied Bach cheerily.

Dorma shrugged. "I leave the matter in your capable hands, then." He turned to Erik. "Any questions?"

Erik looked at him uncertainly. Yes. How in the hell did you ever get the Council of Ten to agree to this--much less the Doge? But he decided that question would be impolitic. If rumor was to be believed, Dorma himself was a member of that secretive body. As for the Doge . . .

Petro coughed. "I might mention that the Doge has given me his blessing. Well. In a manner of speaking."

Again, he eyed the bombard. "I told him we needed to test a new mechanism. He was quite engrossed in his clocks at the time. I took his wave as a gesture of assent. It seemed a reasonable interpretation."

Erik nodded solemnly. It seemed a reasonable response. And less likely to get him in trouble than any words he could think of.

Manfred, as usual, suffered no such inhibitions. "Foscari'll probably have a heart attack when he finds out. On the other hand--" the big young knight swept his arm in a half-circle "--I think you're about to become the most popular official in Venice."

Erik and Dorma turned their heads, following Manfred's gesture. Erik was startled to see the size of the crowd that had already formed alongside the canal, with more and more people pouring in from little side streets. And as the flotilla passed by a small side canal, he could see that it was full of gondolas. All of them were packed with onlookers, for all the world as if they were going on a family promenade. As soon as Lord Dorma's flotilla passed the mouth of the canal, the much larger flotilla of gondolas came following behind.

At first, Erik was surprised that the crowd was so quiet. Almost completely silent, in fact. But before long he understood. Venice's canalers and working classes were still not sure about the nature and purpose of Dorma's flotilla. True, it looked as if . . .

But the Venetian authorities had a long history of looking the other way, when it came to the transgressions of the Dandelos. So who could be sure that this would not just turn out to be another empty gesture?

"They're wondering about us," murmured Manfred. "Look at 'em whispering back and forth, all through that mob. On the one hand, the Knights are supposed to be nothing but tools for the Emperor--which means the Montagnards, to them. On the other hand . . ."

He examined his fellow Knights, standing in the barge, and grinned. "We are a rather fearsome lot to be hauling around just for show."

Erik wasn't sure whether to smile or frown. Once again, Francesca's influence on Manfred was showing. Not so many weeks ago, Manfred wouldn't have been able to analyze a foreign crowd so surely and readily. For that matter--not so many weeks ago--the thought of doing so would never even have crossed his mind. Wine, women, and song, it had been--and very lightly on the "song." Since he'd met that one particular woman, however . . .

He doesn't even drink that much anymore. Will wonders never cease?

But he had no time to pursue the thought further. The grim and imposing edifice of Casa Dandelo loomed ahead of them. Even at a distance, it was obvious the Dandelos had forted up. There was not a person to be seen anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

Except one.

"What in the name of God is that boy doing?" demanded Von Gherens. "Crazy kid!"

Erik stared at the small figure perched on one of the timbers holding up the roof of Casa Dandelo. "Perched" like a bat, not a bird. The kid was hanging upside down.

"I guess he wanted the best possible view," said Manfred. He loosened his great sword in its scabbard. "So let's not disappoint him."

Chapter 61 ==========

Benito's eyes were riveted on the bombard nestled in the hold of the barge, with three of the knights squatting next to it. From Benito's vantage point, high atop Casa Dandelo, he could see the bombard clearly. But he knew that from the angle of Dandelo observers below, the bombard would still be invisible.

That, as much as anything, finally convinced Benito that Dorma's expedition was serious. Like most canalers and lower-class Venetians, his first reaction on hearing the news that Lord Dorma was going to "inspect" Casa Dandelo was jeering. Oh, sure. Dorma'll trot through the place and come out announcing that all is well.

But the bombard . . . hidden from sight . . .

And--the fact that there were Knights in the expedition. If Benito had lost his childhood enthusiasm for his mother's Montagnard cause, he still retained a certain romantic image of the Knights. The champions of Christendom; defenders of the right; bold and brave and true. If the image was tarnished--and had been tarnished even more by the general behavior of the Knights in Venice over the past year--it was still there, lurking in the corners of his mind.

Besides, not all of the Knights were simply lackeys for the Servants. Was there a canaler in Venice who hadn't heard the story, by now, of how some of the Knights--one in particular--had defied their abbot when he ordered a girl and some children hauled out of a church and put to the inquisition? Benito had heard that story several times over the past months, in several different places and from several different pairs of lips.

The stories varied in detail, of course, as city rumors will. Except on one point: all of them agreed that the knight who had first defied the abbot was a Nordic wolfman of some sort. A young blond maniac, who had been ready to carve his fellow knights into bloody pieces over an issue of law and principle.

The barge was closer now. If they hadn't been wearing helmets, Benito could have seen individual faces. Eagerly, he scrutinized what little he could see of the Knights past their helmets and nose guards. Which was not much, unfortunately.

Then Benito noticed that one of the knights--one of the three standing in the bow of the barge--was a very big man. And he remembered that, according to some of the stories he had heard, the blond one had been aided by a supposed giant.

I wonder if . . .

At that moment, one of the knights standing next to the very big one unclasped his helmet and removed it. Then, quickly wiped his forehead and brushed back his long hair; in the way that a warrior will just before battle, to make sure that his hair will not slide forward in the helmet and obscure his view.

His very long and very blond hair . . .

The knight glanced up at Benito as he did so. Then, after shaking his head in bemusement--crazy kid!--replaced the helmet. The whole thing had not taken more than a moment, but long enough for Benito to see the knight's face clearly.

A face that seemed a thing made entirely of angles and sharp planes, for all its obvious youth.

Yes! It's got to be him! I'm sure of it!

Benito's excitement was cresting. Suddenly, he was certain that this expedition was no thing of "show." Not in the least little bit.

I've got to see it!

He made up his mind right then. Curling quickly back into an upright position, he planted his feet firmly on the crossbeam of the roof. Then, looking across the canal to the rooftop across the way where Maria was perched, watching him, gave her a quick and cheerful wave. And a thumbs-up.

Moving quickly, before Maria could have time to start yelling orders at him to cease and desist, Benito took out the little prybar he had brought with him--just in case--and began working at the iron bars of the small window he was squatting beside. Those were some of the iron bars he had sawn through two nights earlier, and it was quick work to pry a couple of them loose. Benito glanced down to make sure no one would get hit, and pitched the bars into the waters of the canal below.

Then, he paused. Better wait until . . . He looked at the barge holding the knights. He could see Petro Dorma also. Benito recognized him from his many public appearances. The Lord of the Nightwatch was perched in the very tip of the bow, preparing to offload. The barge had almost reached the Casa Dandelo.

A moment later, the barge came alongside the wharf. Lord Dorma and the three knights in the bow hopped off and strode to the main door of Casa Dandelo. One of the knights--the big one--began pounding on the door. Lord Dorma was shouting something.

Benito couldn't make out the exact words. Mostly because he was doing his best to close his ears entirely, so he could claim later that he hadn't heard Maria's--now very loud and profane--shouted orders at him to stop what you're going, you crazy little bastard!

He grinned wryly. Well . . . he was pretty little, and he was certainly a bastard. "Crazy," on the other hand . . .

I prefer to think of it as "bold."

Maria's cursing could probably be heard in the Jesolo by now. Get away from that window, you blankety-blank stupid little blankety-blank . . . what do you think you're doing?!

Benito avoided looking at her--his eyes were fixed on the bombard, which several of the knights were wrestling onto the wharf--but he did give her an assuring little wave. Relax, Maria. I know what I'm doing.

A complete lie, of course. Even Benito thought what he was about to do was at least half insane. Voluntarily entering the lair of the Dandelos?

But . . . I have got to see this!

Lord Dorma shouted something which sounded very . . . final. Then he and the three knights at the front stepped back. The other knights, by now, had nestled the bombard against a heavy stone abutment on the wharf. One of them took out a smoking slow match--

They must have already loaded it.

--and the bombard went off with a BOOM. Even though Benito was expecting it, the noise startled him. So did the sound of the heavy front door of Casa Dandelo being turned into splinters. Not so much from the cannonball, which had simply shattered the lock, but from the weight and fury of half a dozen armored knights slamming into it.

Maria's shrieking orders and curses at Benito could be heard in the Alps, by now. He gave her a last little wave and plunged through the window, into the darkness of Casa Dandelo.

* * *

The room he found himself in was some kind of storage area. Everything was very dark, but he could see the dim outlines of a door on the opposite side. Stumbling over various carelessly stacked crates, holding God-knows-what, he scrambled to the door. Then, tested it cautiously. Despite the recklessness of his project, he hadn't lost the fine details of burglary work.

To his relief, the door wasn't locked or bolted on the other side. He opened it slowly, carefully, peeking out into the corridor beyond.

There was no one in the corridor. To his left, the corridor dead-ended a few yards away. Three other doors on that side seemed to be the same type as the door he was opening--old, decayed, apparently little used; the kind of doors which led to nothing beyond rooms for storing mostly unwanted items. By pure luck, he had chosen a perfect entry route into the Dandelo building.

To his right, the corridor angled almost immediately to the left. He couldn't see what lay beyond that bend. But he could hear a furious ruckus coming from somewhere below. The excitement he wanted to watch, obviously.

Hurriedly, not wanting to miss any of it, Benito almost lunged out of the storage room and scurried to the bend of the corridor. The lighting was so bad--just one sconce at the very end of the corridor--that he tripped over an unseen obstacle lying on the floor and wound up sprawling around the bend instead of creeping unnoticed.

Fortunately--

There was no one. The bend led immediately to a flight of stone stairs leading downward to a landing and then curving to the left again.

The noise was louder now. So was--the stench.

Benito almost gagged. Maria had told him how badly Casa Dandelo reeked of the effluvia of slave trading. But he hadn't quite believed her. Breathing through his mouth, and trying to breathe as little as possible, Benito pranced down the stairs. For all the speed with which he negotiated the steps and the landing, he made almost no noise at all.

There was no one on the landing, either. But then Benito got careless. The noise coming up from the fracas below was very loud, now. Men shouting at each other. Benito was suddenly terrified that he would miss everything. So, abandoning what little caution he still retained, he raced from the landing down the stairs. As he neared the bottom of the steeply inclined staircase, he could see that it ended in a balcony overlooking a large room. He covered the last three steps in a single bound, landing on the balcony in a crouch and then eagerly leaning over the stone railing.

Below, in the large entrance hall of Casa Dandelo, he could see Petro Dorma, backed by all of the knights, almost face-to-face with Angelo Dandelo, the head of the House. Dandelo was backed in turn by more than a dozen of his own retainers, all of them armed. Most with cudgels and knives, but at least two with halberds and another two with arquebuses.

The two men seemed to have finished shouting at each other. Dorma was turning his head, clearly on the verge of issuing orders which--just as clearly, from the tension of the knights and the arquebus-armed Schiopettieri standing behind them--no! spreading to the sides, ready to fire--was going to cause all hell to break loose!

Benito was ecstatic. Sure enough! He had a grandstand view!

* * *

Unfortunately . . . so did the four Dandelo retainers who were also perched on the balcony, not more than ten feet away from him. All of them large, angry looking--and armed with cudgels.

* * *

The moment was . . . tense. Benito stared at the Dandelo goons. They stared at him.

What to do? What to do? Two of the Dandelos were starting to move toward him.

Fortunately for Benito, his abrupt arrival had also been noticed by one of the knights standing next to Dorma. The very large one, with a very large voice.

"Hold!" came the bass bellow. Wide-eyed, Benito stared down at him. The very large knight had taken a step toward the balcony, pointing a very large (and armored) finger at the advancing Dandelo goons. "Hold right there! You men are under arrest!"

The very large and armored finger now pointed imperiously at Benito. "You have your orders, Knight-Squire Crazykid!" The finger swept back--as imperiously as ever--to the Dandelo goons on the balcony. "Arrest them! Don't let them escape!"

One of the Dandelo retainers standing not far from the very large knight began to shout some sort of protest. The knight--moving way faster than Benito would have believed he could--slammed a very large and armored fist into the man's face. The Dandelo was flattened instantly. Blood everywhere. Benito wasn't sure, but . . . he thought the blow had broken the man's neck as well as crushed his head.

Knight-Squire Crazykid? Arrest them? Don't let them go?

Fortunately, Benito was no stranger to brazening his way out of jams. He drew his little knife and brandished it like a sword. What the hell. "Knight-Squire Crazykid"--slurred in that terrible accent--did sound a bit German.

"Stop!" he shouted at the goons on the balcony. "I'll kill any man who tries to escape!" He took two steps toward them. "God and the Right!"

Before he got out the last words, an arquebus went off with a roar on the floor below. Then, two more. The four Dandelos on the balcony took off like antelopes. In an instant, they had disappeared up another set of stairs.

Benito looked over the balcony. Both of the Dandelos holding arquebuses were down. One of them clearly dead, his chest a bloody ruin; the other, groaning and holding his side. Blood was pouring through his fingers.

Benito hadn't seen it, but he was sure that the Dandelos had made some threatening move with the firearms and the Schiopettieri had cut loose with their own. Now, with the Dandelos armed with nothing beyond cudgels and edged weapons . . .

Against Knights of the Holy Trinity?!

The stampede was already starting. When the very large knight whipped out his sword and bellowed "Dia a coir!" the stampede turned into a rout. Dandelo retainers raced out of the entry hall, seeking escape anywhere they could find it.

Most of them made it, but five were corralled by the Knights or Schiopettieri. Angelo Dandelo didn't even get two steps. He tried to make his escape, but the blond knight seized him by the scruff of the neck and drove him to the floor by kicking in the back of his knee. None too gently, with an armored boot.

Benito practically howled with glee. But his pleasure ended abruptly, when he noticed that the very large knight was glaring up at him.

Again, the imperious finger. Again, the booming basso voice.

"You! Come down here!"

Benito danced back and forth. The staircase he'd come down from was just behind him, after all. Benito was sure he could outrun that big knight, especially since he'd have to come all the way from the floor below . . . clanking in heavy armor up a staircase that was at an angle from where Benito was standing on the balcony. . . .

He was sure he could make his escape.

On the other hand--

--if he didn't--

Benito glanced down at the Dandelo who'd been struck by the knight's fist. Um. Yes. His neck was broken.

"RIGHT NOW, KID!!"

Meekly, Benito trotted over to the staircase indicated--even that damned finger looks like it could break bones--and came down the stairs.

"Yes, sir! I'm coming!"

* * *

When he arrived before the very large knight, it seemed as if everyone was glaring at him. Most of the knights with reproof, the Schiopettieri with anger, Petro Dorma with the stern face of official Venice.

Well . . . everyone except the blond knight and the big one. The blond was still holding Angelo Dandelo down. He just glanced at Benito and shook his head, the way a man will when confronted with the crazy act of a crazy kid.

The big knight's heavy and square face was half hidden behind the nose guard of his helmet. But Benito saw it very clearly when he . . . winked at him.

"Who are you?" demanded Petro Dorma. "And what are you doing here?"

For some reason, the large knight's wink returned all of Benito's usual self-confidence. Although he did manage to restrain his usual swagger.

"I'm Benito Oro," he announced. Then, angrily: "It was my friend Maria the bastards grabbed! That's why I'm here!" The angry tone faded into something more sullen. "I just . . . wanted to make sure, that's all."

Dorma sighed. Then, exchanged glances with the blond knight.

Benito heard the blond knight mutter something to Dorma. He wasn't sure, but he thought it was "From the mouths of babes."

Dorma's mouth quirked into a little smile. "And why not? All right, young Benito. Since you're here anyway, you can be my--ah, let's call it witness for the canalers. How's that?"

Benito nodded his head, eagerly.

The eagerness faded, when he felt a very large hand close on his shoulder. The hand squeezed a bit. Just a bit. Benito felt like he was caught in a vise.

"I'll look after the kid, Lord Dorma," rumbled the voice. "Have no fear."

Dorma's quirky smile turned into something a lot broader. "Oh, I don't." He gave Benito a genuine official stare.

"I don't believe there's any reason to fear. Is there, boy?"

The very large hand squeezed a bit more. Benito's head-nodding became very eager.

* * *

The next two hours were sheer joy. Benito accompanied Lord Dorma and his entourage as they went through every room--every closet--of Casa Dandelo. Those locks on slave pens for which Angelo had keys in his possession were unlocked. Those which he didn't, were smashed open.

Every slave was inspected. Then, records demanded.

Every slave for whom Dandelo had no records was immediately freed and escorted away by Schiopettieri. Then, Lord Dorma made a notation of the fine. In every instance, he fined Casa Dandelo the maximum permitted by Venetian law.

Every slave for whom Dandelo had inadequate records was also freed--with the same maximum fine.

Lord Dorma's concept of "adequate records" was . . . strict.

Manfred's was . . . Teutonic. Erik's was . . . Viking.

"The ink is smudged here," announced Dorma. "Can't be read at all," snorted Manfred. "I say she's a free woman," growled Erik.

Dorma hesitated a moment, then nodded. Scribble, scribble. Maximum fine.

"He doesn't quite resemble the description," mused Dorma. "To say the least!" boomed Manfred. "An inch too short," sneered Erik. "No resemblance at all. He's a free man."

Scribble, scribble. Maximum fine.

"Does that hair look black to you, Ritters?" queried Dorma. Half a dozen helmeted heads shook back and forth in firm disavowal. "Brown," stated Manfred firmly. "Practically blond!" barked Erik.

Dorma nodded again. "He's free, then." Scribble, scribble. Maximum fine.

* * *

Angelo Dandelo stopped even trying to protest, halfway through the process. Partly because of the split lip he had from his first--and very profane--protest. The blond knight had been no more gentle with his (armored) backhand than he'd been earlier with his boot. You'll show respect for the Lord of the Nightwatch, damn you. Next time you'll spit teeth. The time after that you'll spit guts. Try me, you fucking slaver bastard.

But, mostly, because Dandelo was not a fool. Protest was pointless. The Dandelos had misgauged the political situation, and misgauged it badly. Lord Dorma's place in it, most of all. And they were now going to pay the heavy price which Venice's often ruthless politics exacted from losers. Dorma would leave them just enough slaves--the ones who were incontrovertibly legal--to keep them from outright bankruptcy. But by the end of day, Casa Dandelo would be almost penniless and politically humbled.

* * *

It was late afternoon before Benito emerged from Casa Dandelo. He came out at the very end, with Lord Dorma and the knights. The very large one's hand was still on his shoulder, but it had long since stopped squeezing.

By now it seemed that half of Venice must have gathered to watch. Quite a bit more than half, probably, of the canalers and Arsenalotti. The roar of the mob was almost deafening. No one had any doubts any longer--not after seeing the procession of freed slaves who had emerged from Casa Dandelo for the past hour or so, and been escorted by the Schiopettieri into the waiting empty barges.

Dorma led the way onto the last barge. Unsure what to do now, Benito let the large knight propel him into the barge also.

"Better come with us, Knight-Squire Crazykid," he said. "You don't want to be left alone on Casa Dandelo's wharf tonight."

"My name's Benito."

The very large knight grinned. The square blocky teeth were visible even under the helmet. "Benito, then. It was still a crazy thing to do."

"You should talk, Manfred," chuckled the blond knight standing next to them. He removed the helmet and shook his long, very pale blond hair in the breeze. "God, I hate helmets." Then, smiling at Benito: "I'm Erik Hakkonsen, by the way. And you are insane."

But the words were spoken in a very friendly tone, and Benito found himself meeting the smile with a grin.

"I just couldn't help it, that's all. And I wouldn't have missed that for anything."

The very large knight--Manfred, he was apparently named--now removed his helmet also. Benito was almost shocked when he saw how young he was. He's not much older than me. Can't be more than eighteen.

The barge pulled away from the wharf and began heading across the canal. The mob on the other side was packed like sardines, all of them waving and shouting.

"LORD DORMA! LORD DORMA!" And more than a few: "Doge Dorma!"

The knight named Erik stared, apparently taken aback by the crowd's frenzied applause. Oddly, the young knight named Manfred didn't seem surprised at all.

"Just like Francesca predicted," he mused. "I do believe Venetian politics just went through an earthquake."

* * *

"I'm letting you off here," Petro Dorma said to Benito, as the barge was almost across the canal.

At that moment, a young woman suddenly pushed her way to the forefront of the mob. Her eyes seemed a little wild. As soon as she caught sight of Benito, her square jaw tightened like a clamp. Then . . .

"That's an incredible command of profanity, she's got," said Manfred cheerily. "And the way your girlfriend's shaking her fist at you doesn't bode well for your future."

"She's not my girlfriend," growled Benito.

Manfred's already huge grin got bigger. "Could have fooled me!" He eyed the shrieking young woman. "In my experience--okay, it's limited, I admit--but still . . ." The grin faded a little, and the next words came softly. "Young Benito, I think only a woman in love gets that angry at a man."

"You're crazy!" snapped Benito.

They were almost at the edge of the canal. With as little effort as if he were picking up a toddler, Manfred hoisted Benito by the armpits and began to deposit him off the barge.

"Maybe so," he whispered. "But if she isn't, you're the one who's crazy, not me. Damn, but she's gorgeous."

Benito stared at the furious eyes that Manfred's huge hands were depositing him before, to meet his punishment. The square jaw, the red face, the thick hair swinging wildly--almost as wildly as the fist--the broad shoulders.

Damn. She is gorgeous.

* * *

The thought vanished as soon as Maria's hand cracked his face. And it stayed away while she shook him by the shoulders--slapped him again; not as hard, but twice--and finished cursing him. But it returned, in a flood, when she seized him and hugged him close, sobbing softly in his hair and kissing his cheek.

"God damn you, Benito, don't ever scare me like that again."

"I'm sorry, Maria," he mumbled. "But . . ."

He didn't know how to respond. He was too confused. Damn, but you're gorgeous seemed . . . crazy. But he couldn't think of anything else to say. Not a damn thing that didn't seem . . . crazier.

Chapter 62 ==========

When Antimo brought the news of Dorma's raid on the Dandelos to the Duke of Ferrara, Dell'este rose from his chair and went to the window. There he remained, for some time, staring toward Venice.

"How much money have we received so far from the Emperor, through Baron Trolliger's private agents?"

"We'll have enough to hire the condottieri we need."

"Secretly?"

"Yes, milord. Since you'll be commanding the army yourself, I've not had to negotiate with any well-known great captains. Just a large number of small companies. Neither Visconti nor Sforza will be able to keep track of the numbers involved. Ferrara will field twice the force the Milanese are expecting. I'm quite sure of it."

"Careless on their part," mused Dell'este. "But I'm not surprised. Filippo Visconti has always been too arrogant, and Sforza has grown complacent with success." He was silent for a moment. Then gave the windowsill a little tap. "So. Everything else is in place. We have the army we need, and it seems as if Venice has finally found a leader worthy of the name. There remains, only--Valdosta."

When he turned back, the face of the Old Fox seemed to have no expression at all. But Antimo knew his master far too well to be fooled.

"The sword, then?"

The duke nodded. "Yes. Send it. The time has come. At last."

The Old Fox's right hand curled into a loose fist, as if an expert swordsman held a blade in his hand. Still, there was no expression in his face. But, again, Antimo was not fooled. And so, as he had done so many other times and in so many other ways, he gave help again to his master.

"They murdered your daughter, hounded your grandchildren. Did their best to soil the name of Dell'este. Plotted and schemed to destroy Ferrara and Venice both."

The duke's lips peeled back into a snarl. Had he been there to see the sight, Carlo Sforza--the famous "Wolf of the North"--would have finally recognized what he was about to face.

But Sforza was not there; nor were his master Visconti's spies. And the moment was brief, in any event. Soon enough, the Old Fox was back.

"So they did," he murmured, smiling thinly. "And in so doing, did nothing more--in the end--than sharpen my blades." His eyes moved to the rack of swords. "There are no finer blades in the world, Antimo, than those of Dell'este."

PART V May, 1538 A.D. ===============================

Chapter 63 ==========

The summons to Dorma had come often that spring. Petro seemed to enjoy talking to him, and they would be sending him to the Accademia in the summer.

This Friday morning it was different.

* * *

Petro Dorma was sitting--as usual--in his inner sanctum. The balding man's face, usually serious, was downright solemn. Across his desk lay an open box containing a naked sword on a sheet of scarlet silk it had plainly been wrapped in. It was an old hand-and-a-half-blade, made in a style a century out of date now. The blue-silver folded Damascus steel was as rippling mirror bright as if it had left the maker yesterday. Only the golden hilt showed the signs of years of careful devoted polishing. Wordlessly, Petro Dorma held out the letter.

It didn't take Marco long to read it.

I send into the keeping of House Dorma one of the honor-blades of Dell'este, in token of the bond now between us. Young Marco will know how it is to be cared for.

"Your grandfather says you know how to care for this sword."

Marco nodded, not able to speak. There was a hidden message there from Duke Dell'este, a message Milord Petro could not possibly read. But Marco knew--and the implications turned his life upside down in the single span of time it had taken Petro to free the blade from its silk wrapping.

Petro Dorma was no fool, of course. If he could not read the message, still, he knew that one was there--and that it must be portentous for his house. So he took Marco's nod at face value, and set the sword back down in its silken nest.

Dell'este steel--Dell'este honor. There is no going back now. Not for Grandfather. Not for the Old Fox.

"Tell me what you need," Dorma said simply. "I gather this isn't the sort of thing you just leave in the armory or hang on the wall."

"A--p-place," Marco stammered. "I need a place for it, somewhere where it's safe, but where it can be seen by--by--" He flushed. "By the House-head. You, milord. You're--supposed to be reminded by it, milord."

Petro nodded thoughtfully. "Will that do?" he asked, pointing behind and to Marco's right.

There was an alcove between two windows, an alcove currently holding an unimpressive sculpture of the Madonna. The alcove was approximately a foot wider than the blade was long.

"Yes, milord," Marco said immediately. "Yes. Milord--that's perfect."

* * *

A few days later, the thing was done. And he was summoned into Dorma's presence again.

Marco held his breath, and with all the concentration he could command, placed the century-old hand-and-a-half sword reverently in the cradle of the special rack he'd asked Milord Petro to have made.

Marco stepped back two paces to scan his handiwork with an apprehensive and critical eye.

He'd inspected and cleaned the blade of the sword that morning, that being a small ritual in and of itself. Somewhere in his earlier conversations he'd told Petro that in Venice's damp climate, he'd have to inspect the blade once or twice a week, and that he preferred not to have to move it too far from its resting place.

He'd been a little apprehensive about that, since this was clearly the Head of Dorma's private--and very special--sanctuary. But Petro had nodded his acceptance of that, gravely, and then he'd taken the undyed tassel off the hilt, keeping it, not giving it to a servant to be dealt with.

This morning he'd returned the tassel to Marco, now the deep and unmistakable midnight-blue of Dorma's house colors. That was all Marco had needed. The ancient sword was now ready to take its place in the heart of Dorma.

He knelt again, and reached out to adjust the blade so that the silk tassels hung side-by-side from the hilt, neither obscuring the other. The Valdosta-scarlet and Dorma-blue tassels hung gracefully, shining as only heavy silk could.

Dorma colors. Dell'este colors. Ferrara's steel.

* * *

Marco wore all of them, now. A main gauche and rapier of more modern design on his belt, sent by the duke. And--on his right hand, a signet ring. A new-cut signet, with an old design. The lion's head seal of Casa Valdosta.

He would be hidden no longer. After all these years, the secret life in the marshes and the canals, Valdosta had returned to take his rightful place in Venice.

* * *

"It is your grandfather's opinion--which I share--that you would now be far safer in the public eye, where harming you would be noticed and acted upon. You must come to live here in the Casa Dorma." Petro Dorma's gaze weighed and measured Marco before he added--

"Both of you."

It took all the eloquence that Marco possessed to convince Petro that he did not want Benito--not-entirely-ex-thief, bridge-brat Benito--inside Casa Dorma. At least not for now.

"Caesare Aldanto's the only one who can control him, milord." He pleaded earnestly. "I can't. And you might as well try to tell the tide not to come in, for all he'll heed you. Caesare Aldanto can keep him safe until he develops a little more sense."

Marco clenched his hands in anguish on the arms of the chair. "Please, milord--Lord and Saints know I love him, but I know him. He's Dell'este blood--but wolf Sforza blood also. He's been on the street since he was a kid. Bridge-brat taught; it'd be like trying to tame a wild kitten. Tell Caesare to bring him around to being civilized. If anybody can make Benito see sense, it'll be Caesare Aldanto."

Petro Dorma scowled at the mention of Aldanto's name, then nodded again--this time reluctantly. "I can't say that I like it, but you know your brother." His mouth firmed. "That makes it all the more important that we fulfill our obligations toward you, Marco." He surveyed Marco's clothing with a critical eye. "And one of the first things will be an appropriate wardrobe. I'll have my mother see to that--"

But in the end it had been Angelina, not Rosanna, who had outfitted him. Petro's mother, Rosanna, was indisposed, and Marco had yet to actually see her except at meals. She seemed ill, and looked as frail as a creature of lace and spun glass. He much doubted she'd seen him, not really; he'd kept his head down and his eyes fixed on his plate, and he never spoke. That wasn't because Dorma cousins were unfriendly; mostly it was because he didn't know what to say. The intricacies of polite social conversation were still a mystery to him. And what could he talk about, anyway? How to survive in the marshes? The best ways to break into a house?

So he kept his mouth shut, and let the Dorma cousins steer him though the maze of dancing, religion, and etiquette lessons; let Angelina guide him through what it meant to be a House scion; let Caesare Aldanto try to show him how to keep himself alive with that Valdosta steel--

And let Angelina outfit him. In leather, silk, wool, and finest linen. Clothing he hadn't worn since that long ago childhood in Ferrara, the kind where the cost of one pair of boots would outfit a canaler for years.

The silk of a sleeve slid caressingly along his arm as he adjusted the positioning of the basse taille enameled sword-rest by a fraction of an inch. The stand itself was adequate--the best Petro could do on short notice. The cabinet maker had been given a more exact design, and instructions to paint the stand with no fewer than twenty coats of varnish. That kind of work took time, and Marco was content to wait for it.

The walnut half-moon table it stood on, though, was perfect. Rescued from the Dorma attics, its neat marquetry could have come from the hand of a master craftsman. Perhaps it had come from Ferrara too--Rosanna Dorma had brought some furnishings with her from their estates outside Vicenza. Iron from Vicenza went to the forges of Ferrara and the Dell'este craftsmen marked only their steel.

Marco looked again at the old sword and shivered. The second sword of Dell'este, that he'd last seen on its own rest just below the first sword. It brought with it levels of meaning as intricate and interleaved as the folded and refolded steel that made up the blade.

* * *

"The sword of Duke Dell'este is the soul of House Dell'este," the old duke had said, with Marco kneeling attentively beside him.

"This sword--" Marco had turned wide eyes on his grandfather--"is as old as Ferrara?!" He could not imagine it: the tally of years made him dizzy to contemplate.

"Not Ferrara and not this sword," Grandfather had sighed. "The Dell'este were swordsmiths . . . back when the Etruscans first came across the mountains to the flatlands of the east. The first soul of Dell'este was forged in Felsina. The second in hiding in Motena. The third was made in the marshes we reclaimed to make Ferrara's wealth. Each time we have made two. As strong and with the new skills that the Dell'este alone can give to the great blades. Some call it magic . . ." The old man had smiled, dryly. "The witchfinders suspect us. But if there is magic, it is in the blood and bone and steel of the Dell'este. Sometimes . . . when the House Dell'este is threatened--in uncertain times--it is sometimes wise to send a second soul out with an heir to seek a new home, so that the Dell'este line will continue. This is the third blade that--"

Beside him, Benito wriggled and yawned audibly.

"Father, this is boring me to tears." Lorendana had complained. "I can hardly imagine the boys--"

"Exactly," Grandfather had snapped. "You can hardly imagine anything. Exercising your mind is evidently beyond you." He rose to his feet, his face gone cold with anger, and pointed to the door behind her. "Go, get out of here, and take your impertinence with you."

* * *

That was what Grandfather had meant, sending the sword. That things were deteriorating in Ferrara. That he feared for the House Dell'este, and was taking steps to ensure its survival. But he, Marco Valdosta, was merely the child of a daughter of the house. Things must be dire indeed . . . that he, Marco, was now a recognized heir.

Dell'este honor. The Dell'este soul-sword. He wanted to heal people, not cut them down. But honor demanded he must do as the House Dell'este needed.

Petro Dorma couldn't know these things, but he had evidently understood that the coming of the sword meant far, far more than mere courtesy to a new ally, a new powerful trade partner, or even the Family that had assumed guardianship of his grandsons.

"You realize--we've had to change our original plans about you." Petro spoke reluctantly, as if he regretted having to tell this to Marco. "We were going to sponsor you into the Accademia in anticipation that you would eventually replace Doctor Rigannio. He's getting old, he's been hinting for some time that we should start thinking about finding an 'assistant.' But now--"

Petro shrugged, helplessly.

"I'm sorry, Marco, but it's really out of the question. It simply isn't done, having a son of one Family serving another Family, even in so honored a position as Family physician. Oh, I see no reason why you can't study medicine, so go right ahead, and we'll go through with our sponsorship and support. But--"

Marco nodded. "I understand, milord," he'd said quietly. "That's just the way it is."

Dell'este honor.

Dell'este responsibilities.

There was no running away from this. And he had learned, finally, the folly of running. Even Caesare didn't run from problems--because he had taken on responsibilities. So there would be no "Doctor Marco" living canalside, helping the canalers and the poorest of the canalsiders.

Still . . . Doctor Rigannio, a kindly man, had been letting him be something of an assistant, in the past month or so that he'd been visiting Dorma. Now that he was here he spent more time with him, so long as it was within the House. And Rigannio'd been listening, carefully, to what Marco had poured out to him about Sophia's cures. That information--slowly, carefully, and with no clues as to the source--was something Doctor Rigannio had taken to leaking back into the Accademia. It wasn't heretical; and Marco had already seen evidence that it was coming back down to canalside, as the herb-hunters were pointed to new plants, and the results coming into the apothecaries. So he'd done that much good.

And there was something else. He'd been watching these aristocrats, and from the inside vantage point. No one thought any the worse of the Casa heads for having hobbies--some of them pretty odd. Old man Renzi cultivated entertainers. Bruno Bruschi studied Venetian insect life. Carlo di Zecchilo played the flute. Angelo Ponetti made lace, for God's sake! As long as it didn't obsess you, the way the Doge's clockwork toys did, a hobby was actually considered genteel.

There was no reason why the head of an old Case Vecchie family like the Valdosta couldn't indulge himself in a hobby of medicine. And if he chose to treat the impoverished canalers and canalsiders, well, the medical establishment would be relieved that he wasn't taking away potentially paying patients, and his peers would consider it no more than mildly eccentric. He could work it out with the priests by explaining that he was discharging religious obligations. As for having the time to do this, he'd been watching Petro; and yes, he was busy, but he did have some leisure time. It was possible.

And the opportunity to so indulge himself--the training to be able to do so--would have come without any strings attached other than those of duty to his family. Not Strega, not Dorma. There were other ramifications--of potential benefit to both Valdosta and Aldanto. He could earn loyalty and gratitude for Valdosta down along canalside that no amount of money could buy. He could earn friends for his Family, and ears for Caesare Aldanto.

"I'm kind of lost here," he had been saying to his patients, or his patients' parents. They knew by his accent that he wasn't canalside born, though what they made of him, he couldn't guess. "I don't know canalside. I need friends in the trade, friends who'd tell me when somebody's setting up to cheat me or hurt me. Not spies, Lord and Saints, no! Just friends--who'll give me a ride now and again, give me warning if there's a bullyboy on my tail, and tell me the common gossip everybody knows, but nobody else would tell me. That's help, honest help, worth more than silver, worth more than enough to clear any debt."

Those who'd insisted on paying him with goods instead of that asked-for help, he'd had leave the stuff in front of Harrow's hole. It kept disappearing, so he assumed Harrow was getting most of it. He doubted anyone else was. That part of Castello had become mysteriously free from crime of late . . .

He sighed, and got to his feet. It was hard, trying to think out all the ramifications of something. He was so used to living one day at a time, not thinking beyond the needs of the season. Now--

Now it was time for dancing lessons. Pah. Dancing lessons. He'd been here a week and needed to get out and see Kat. But he wasn't sure what to tell her. She was a commoner, a smuggler. He was now one of the Case Vecchie. How was she going to take that? She was the greatest darling in nature. But touchy about her home. It must be very simple and poor and she didn't seem to want him to know where it was.

How would he handle that, now? How would he handle anything?

He didn't know. All he knew was the meaning of the sword, there in its rightful place.

Dell'este steel. Dell'este honor. It had been returned to him. He had no choice but to honor it. Nor, he discovered, probing his heart, did he have any desire not to honor it.

Chapter 64 ==========

Light flickered up ahead as a door opened and closed. A figure entered the corridor. "Who is it?" snapped an elderly female voice in irritation.

"Your pardon, milady," Marco said humbly, "I'm afraid I took a wrong turn somewhere."

He paused in the unfamiliar stuffy, darkened corridor. Marco realized that, with his mind preoccupied with the conversation just finished with Petro, he'd gotten lost. This area of Casa Dorma was part of the Family's living quarters--and, apparently, an old and poorly maintained one. The perfume in the single lamp along this stretch of hallway could not mask the faint odor of mildew, nor the olive origin of the oil it burned.

Marco's night sight had always been good; he had no difficulty seeing who it was that had accosted him. Milady Rosanna Dorma--Petro's mother--and she didn't look well. Her skin was grayish, a vein throbbed in her temple, and her eyes seemed to be all pupil. She was pressing her right hand to her temple, and supporting herself against the corridor wall with her left. Prudence said that he should go back and leave her alone. Concern and the healing instinct said she was in no shape to be left alone. He moved quickly to her side, footsteps sounding hollow in the uncarpeted corridor, intending to ask if he could be of service to her, since he'd inadvertently intruded on her privacy.

But she began trembling the moment he came into view, staring at him as if he was a thing out of nightmare. She crowded back against the corridor wall--and when he held out his hand to steady her, she shrieked, spasmed, and fell to the floor.

Prudence dictated that he find help: Doctor Rigannio, or Petro Dorma.

And by the time I find help she may be dead--

He was on his knees beside her in an eye-blink, then cradling her in his arms to protect her from injuring herself with the convulsions she was suffering. He held her head against his shoulder, and pinioned her wrists in one long hand. She was so frail, it took next to nothing to restrain her.

"Ernesto!" she cried shrilly. "Ernesto, no! Not again! Dear God, not again!" She writhed in his arms, trying to free her hands, trying to reach for something.

Dilated eyes, racing pulse, clammy skin. Sweat beading the brow, and hallucinations. By that throbbing vein in the temple, probably a blinding headache. Symptoms tumbled together in his mind and formed an answer.

Lotos dreams. He'd seen it in the Jesolo with blue-lotos addicts. Either induced, or flashback; it didn't matter which. And in a patient as obviously weakened as this one was, if someone didn't do something, now--she was in very real danger of never coming out again.

And if he left her alone to get help--she was in very real danger of hurting, or even killing herself.

There was only one choice; try and talk her though it. He'd done it more than once, with Luciano. If he could just get her attention fixed on him--

"Rosanna--" Now was not the time for "Milady Dorma"; she wouldn't respond to that. He slipped her farther down so that she was lying against his upright knee and slapped her cheek, lightly. "Rosanna, say something. Tell me you hear me." He slapped her other cheek. "Tell me! Talk to me!"

Her eyes wandered, seeing things he couldn't; tears poured down her ashen cheeks.

"Rosanna! Talk to me!" He shook her, and dredged up her few, hysterical words, looking for a clue to get into her dream. "Rosanna, if you don't talk to me, Ernesto will get very angry with you!"

Her eyes focused on him for a moment. "L-Lorendana? Lorendana Valdosta?" She faltered, her face twisted, her mouth a slash of pain. "Lorendana, stop them! They're your friends--they're killing Ernesto--"

God and Saints--she thought he was his mother. That must have been what threw her into this in the first place! Ernesto--that must have been Ernesto Dorma, Petro's father. He'd wondered about the portrait in the study, so like Petro, but plainly older; Petro had identified it, then said something about his father dying from an accidental fall.

Gods--could she have seen something no one else did? Is that why--never mind. Whatever it was, it couldn't have involved my mother. She was murdered months before Ernesto Dorma died. I'll get her out of this first, then worry about Dorma secrets.

There were only two ways of dealing with lotos dreams--direct the dream, or break it--

And somehow Marco knew if he directed the dream from the nightmare she was in into something pleasant, she'd never leave it again.

"Ernesto is dead, Rosanna," he said savagely. "He's been dead more than a year. You know he's dead. And you can't change the past. You think you can, but the past you create is a lie. And Ernesto doesn't like lies, Rosanna."

Her eyes widened, and she whimpered in the back of her throat. He continued on, as stern and unyielding as Saint Chrysostom, his morning's religion lesson giving him another weapon to break her out of her hallucination. "He's very angry with you, Rosanna. You're muddying his trip through purgatory, trying to hold on to him like this. He sent me to tell you that if you really loved him, you'd let him go!"

She cried out in denial, freed her hands from his, and tried to push him away. At the end of the corridor another door opened and closed, and there was the sound of a footstep--two. Marco didn't dare look up--he had Rosanna's attention now, and if he broke eye contact with her, he'd lose it.

"No--" she moaned, as a gasp from the direction of the door reached him; he heard running footsteps. "No, Ernesto would never say that! Ernesto wouldn't--"

"He would, and he did--you're hurting him, Rosanna, you're holding him back."

Angelina's voice, sharp and shrill. "What are you doing with my--"

"Shut up, Angelina," he hissed, regaining Rosanna's wandering attention by shaking her again. "Get the doctor--"

She at least had enough sense not to argue with him. Running feet retreated, and the door slammed against the wall as witness to her hasty passage.

Rosanna beat at his face and chest with hard, bony fists; her blows were wild, but she got him a good one in the nose and just under the left eye. Marco tried not to wince; ghosts feel no pain.

"I don't believe it!" She was crying. "I don't believe you! Ernesto would never believe such--"

"Ernesto is in purgatory. Do you want to be responsible for dragging him down?" The religion lesson having given him the barb to use on her, and forced to be cruel by desperation, he dug it in. "Do you want to be the one who forces him to stay there longer? If you die, if you lose yourself in opium dreams, Rosanna, that's what will happen, and it will all be your fault."

"NO!" She shoved him away, hard enough that he lost his hold on her, and he lost his balance as well. He hit his head on the wall with a sickening crack, and saw stars.

He struggled against the darkness, still not able to see but fighting off the dazzle, and more footsteps pounded up the corridor. As his eyes cleared he was shoved summarily out of the way by Doctor Rigannio, and a wiry woman he recognized as Rosanna's maid. A hand grabbing his elbow helped him to stand; when he turned to render thanks, he found himself staring into Angelina Dorma's profoundly unhappy, dark-circled eyes.

He froze, unsure of what to say, as behind him he could hear her mother's muffled sobs, and the comforting murmur of her maid.

He stood that way for an eternity. Angelina reached out toward his face, as if to touch his swelling nose, then stopped herself. She seemed at as much of a loss as he was.

"Marco--"

He turned, grateful for a chance to look away.

"Marco, whatever you did, it was right," Doctor Rigannio said, getting painfully to his feet, while the maid held Rosanna against her shoulder, letting her cry herself into calmness. "You broke her out of her hallucination--"

"She thought I was someone she knew," Marco said carefully, not sure how much of his background the House had been told. "My mother, I guess, and she knew that my mother is dead. I guess she never got a good look at me before this. I think I might have thrown her into the hallucination in the first place. I--I'm sorry. I certainly didn't mean it."

"Of course you didn't," the doctor said smoothly, one eye on Rosanna as her maid helped her to rise. Rosanna turned a tear-streaked face toward the sound of their voices, and blinked.

"Who are you? she asked, voice hoarse with strain.

"This is Marco Valdosta, Rosanna," Doctor Rigannio interposed smoothly. "You remember; Petro told you. He's going to the Accademia under Dorma sponsorship. He is a grandson of Duke Dell'este of Ferrara. The duke has made some trade agreements with us in return."

She turned away from her maid and looked at him with wondering eyes. "Marco Valdosta--you must be Lorendana's boy. She had two, I heard."

He bowed to her. "Yes, milady." The mention of Benito made him nervous.

"It's uncanny," she said, "you look just like her."

"So I've been told, milady."

"I--" Her eyes clouded for a moment, then cleared and she drew herself up, taking on a dignity and poise that reminded him sharply of his grandfather, and a beauty that had nothing to do with tear-swollen eyes, blanched cheeks and trembling hands. "I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude."

He interrupted her gently. "Milady, you owe me nothing. You were ill, I simply stayed with you until Angelina could bring the doctor. That is, or will be, my duty--I'm studying medicine after all." He was amazed at himself; he sounded years older and he wondered where the words were coming from.

They were evidently the right ones. She flushed a little and lowered her gaze.

"Rosanna, you should go rest," the doctor prompted.

"Yes," she replied vaguely. "Yes, I should. Forgive me."

As the corridor door opened and closed behind them, Doctor Rigannio cursed savagely. "Angelina, where is she getting it?" He stopped then, as if only now realizing that there was an outsider not of Dorma standing awkwardly at his elbow, privy to every word he said.

Marco cleared his throat. "It's none of my business, Doctor Rigannio, but--that looked like a lotos flashback to me."

The doctor pivoted, face blank with surprise. "Lotos flashback? What in the name of God is that?"

Marco flushed and stammered: "If y-you take enough lotos, it changes your head. Even if you never t-take it again, you can get thrown into hallucinations by any strong stimulus." He shrugged. "That's why a lot of Jesolo-marsh folk are crazy. Stuck in lotos dreams."

Doctor Rigannio closed his eyes and cursed again. "So that's why--thank you, Marco. Again. I trust we can rely on your discretion?"

Marco managed a feeble smile. "What discretion, milord? Milady Rosanna had a dizzy spell and I just stayed with her until you came. Nothing terrible and she certainly didn't say anything except to thank me."

"Good boy." The doctor clapped him on the shoulder and he staggered a little. "I'll go see what needs to be done."

That left him alone in the corridor with Angelina.

Now she wouldn't look at him.

"You've heard enough that you might as well know all of it," she said bitterly, staring at the polished wooden floor, twisting the hem of her shawl in white hands. "When Father died she took it badly--she'd been in love with him, really in love, and she couldn't bear to be without him. She started taking lotos so she could see him." Angelina looked up finally and gestured her helplessness.

"Where was she getting it?" Marco asked.

Angelina's eyes blazed. "Caesare Aldanto," she spat--and burst into tears.

* * *

Once again Marco wound up sitting on the floor of the corridor with a lady of Dorma in his arms--this one crying into his shoulder all the things she did not dare tell mother or brother. About how she still loved Aldanto--and hated him. About how her mother's manservant, Paulo, had been the go-between. About how she'd put two and two together when she realized that Paulo had known exactly where to take her the first time she'd met with Caesare--which could only mean he'd been there many times before.

And that she was pregnant with Caesare's baby.

None of this--except for the business with Rosanna and the lotos--was any surprise to Marco. It was pretty obvious from her intermittent hysterics that Angelina was "not herself" and adding those frequent visits to Caesare gave anybody good cause.

But that she thought the man was the source of the drug--

Lord and Saints.

He didn't know quite what to say or do, so he just let her cry herself out--something she evidently needed--then helped her to tidy herself and helped her to her feet.

"Thank you, Marco," she said, shyly, a little ashamed. "I didn't mean--"

"That's what friends are for," he told her. "We are friends, aren't we?"

"I'd hoped so--but after--"

He shrugged. "I learned things from that whole mess--and it got me here, didn't it?" He delicately declined to mention how much that fiasco had placed him in Aldanto's debt.

"Then we are friends." She offered him her hand with a sweet smile that could still make his heart jump a little, even if he wasn't in love with her anymore. He took it, squeezed it--and they parted.

* * *

The dancing lessons were worse than ever. Even if his mind hadn't been elsewhere, Marco would have found the intricate precision of the steps hard to remember and follow. It was odd, in a way, given that his memory was normally so perfect. Why should he have so much difficulty with this, when he didn't with herbal remedies and cargo lists?

In the end, listening to the dance master's shrill and humorless criticisms, Marco decided his memory was being sabotaged by itself. He and Chiano used to dance little jigs sometimes, in the marshes, without ever worrying about whether the "steps" were proper and correct. Remembering the cheerful and raucous jibes of Sophia which accompanied those moments of gaiety, he smiled.

"Marco!" shrilled the dance-master. "You're not supposed to smile during this dance! This dance is a very solemn--"

Marco sighed. There are ways in which my old life was a lot easier . . .

Chapter 65 ==========

When Marco was summoned to Petro Dorma's office at sunset, he assumed it was due to the near-disaster with Rosanna in the private corridor the day before. This time Marco followed the servant to the top of his house with only a little trepidation. He had, he thought, handled the whole mess fairly well.

The east windows framed a sky that was indigo blue, spangled with tiny crystal star-beads. The west held the sun dying a bloody death. Petro was a dark silhouette against the red.

Marco cleared his throat. "You sent for me, Milord Dorma?"

Petro did not turn around. "It seems," he said dryly, "that you have fallen into the muck-pit of Dorma secrets. Doctor Rigannio told me a bit--'Gelina told me more." He sighed. "It seems to me the older and more honorable the House, the deeper and darker its closet. Almost as if our 'honor' were a reaction to this."

He seemed to be waiting for a response.

"Every House has secrets," Marco replied carefully. "You know more'n--more than a few things that neither the Valdosta nor the Dell'este could be proud of. You can trust me, Petro."

Now Petro turned, though he was still nothing more than a sable shape to Marco. "Well. I will admit I have been toying with this notion for a while, but--I didn't quite know how to phrase this delicately, yet I also did not want you to have any deceptions about what I was going to offer. Angelina told you, she says, that she's--"

"Expecting," Marco supplied.

"And who the father is." Petro coughed. "We are in something of a dilemma. It just isn't done for a Case Vecchie daughter to have an--unacknowledged child. Yet we can hardly look to Caesare Aldanto as a husband. It would seem best for Angelina to make a marriage, but frankly, there wasn't anyone she wanted to confide in--really, no one she truly didn't find repugnant even for a titular husband." He paused, significantly. "Until today."

Marco was considerably less of a fool than he had been half a year ago, but this was still a shock.

"You mean--" He gulped. "You mean me."

"It would be of great benefit to Dorma," Petro admitted frankly. "A marriage with Valdosta would get us out of an awkward situation--and not incidentally, give us a chance to negotiate for a better access to Ferrara's steel trade." His voice was wry. "I do have to think first of Dorma as a whole before I think of Angelina--but if I can benefit both . . ."

Marco fought for solid ground. "Was this Angelina's idea, not yours?"

Petro tapped his chest. "I suggested it after she told me about this afternoon. She seemed to welcome the idea. She does like you, Marco--and so do I. I'd be quite pleased to have you further tied to my House."

Marco was floundering. He could have Angelina Dorma, the girl he'd once dreamed of--and if he kept his mouth shut, she'd continue to blame Caesare for her mother's addiction. That would, eventually, break the hold Caesare had on her heart. Which would please Maria, and maybe Caesare too. It would save the Casa Dorma from a potentially damning scandal. Marco could read between Petro's careful words. Finding a husband for Angelina that wouldn't drag the family down was going to be hard, to say nothing of expensive. And he, Marco Valdosta, owed the Dorma. For protection as much as advancement. He owed Caesare. He owed Maria too.

But what about Kat? His heart felt like it would break.

Dell'este honor.

He'd followed the dictates of his heart before. The result had been disaster.

Dell'este honor demanded payback. And he might be in love with Kat . . . yet he still had no idea if she was in love with him.

More than anything, at that moment, Marco wanted to talk to Kat. Desperately. But he had no idea how to reach her before their appointment on Thursday. He didn't know where she lived--even her last name.

Everything hurt.

He was almost gasping like a fish out of water, now. His mind, reeling, tried to find a point of solidity somewhere. The only one which came was--

Honor. Family honor.

Marco had a feeling that if he saw Kat again, family honor might just crumble. But honor demanded that he did see her. Didn't it?

"Milord--three things," he said carefully, choosing his words and somehow managing not to stammer. "The first is--I need to think about this. There's someone--never mind. I'd like to get out of the House for a while."

His mind slipped into a medical track, seeking comfort in the familiar. "For your mother . . . I'll suggest a few things that I know of to Doctor Rigannio. But while he's trying them, it might be a good idea anyway if Milady Rosanna wouldn't be in a position to see me."

Petro nodded. "Certainly. I didn't expect an immediate answer. But please keep in mind . . . Marriage can't wait too long, Marco. Angelina's three months pregnant already. Closer to four months, I suspect. As for the other, a place away from my mother could be arranged--but not back with Aldanto. Did you have anything in mind?"

"Well--my friend, Rafael de Tomaso, was talking about there being a suite of rooms at a boarding house not far from Zianetti's. He was kind of wishing he knew somebody he could trust to split it with him. I think he was hinting at me. He's Father Bellini's protege, in art."

Petro nodded again. "A good choice. I think we can arrange that. What else?"

This was daring, but-- "Caesare Aldanto isn't where Milady got her drugs. There isn't much he hasn't done, but that's not one of them." He coughed a little, shamed, but offered the confession to balance the secrets he'd stumbled on. "A while back, I think I found out where the introit of lotos shipments was. This was about two months ago. This . . . problem with your mother has been going on for some time longer than that hasn't it? And Caesare Aldanto didn't know about the lotos sales then. So . . . I can't prove it, not yet, but--it wasn't him."

"So?" Petro's voice was neutral.

"Before I say anything to Milady Angelina, I want to be able to prove to her that it wasn't Caesare. I want everything clean between us."

Dell'este honor.

He sighed. "I want her making her choices without any lies. I messed her up with lies before; I don't want to do it again. If she knows the truth--she might make different choices. And that's her right."

Petro folded his arms across his chest; the sky behind him deepened to blue and the first stars sprinkled across it. "I can respect that," he said, a certain warmth coming into his voice. "I can respect that and I can understand that. Of course as the head of family, I can tell you that Aldanto will never be acceptable to Dorma. And you know that I serve as one of the Signori di Notte. Since Lord Calenti's death we know the damned lotos trade has started up again. Even if it was not my mother, I'd want to know. Because it is . . . I want to know badly. Very well--you seek your proofs and I'll see about getting you moved out of Dorma so that you can have your time to think. But please. The wedding has to be soon."

"Thank you, milord," Marco replied quietly and turned to go.

"Marco--"

He stopped and turned back.

He could just see Petro's smile in the blue dusk.

"You are part of our secrets. Therefore, you are part of us. Whatever decision you make regarding a marriage to my sister--welcome to Casa Dorma, Marco."

* * *

Marco was in a daze after he left Casa Dorma. Now that he was no longer in the presence of Petro Dorma, the Head of the House, matters of family responsibility and honor seemed less overwhelming. His personal hopes and desires loomed far larger.

I have to talk to someone!

But who? He considered Benito, but ruled him out almost immediately. His younger brother's advice on this matter would be useless, or even worse.

Rafael, perhaps. Marco needed to speak to him anyway, on the subject of the lodgings.

But, as he made his way through the narrow streets, dark now that evening had fallen, Rafael's advice on the matter seemed less and less attractive. Marco couldn't help but remember that the last time he'd taken Rafael's advice on a matter of the heart, the results had been . . . mixed, to say the least. For all of Rafael's self-confidence and ease, the truth was that he was still too young himself to really understand what would be the right course.

Thoughts of Rafael, however, triggered thoughts of Chiano. Or Dottore Luciano Marina, as he was now. Chiano will have good advice.

Marco didn't know where Chiano lived. But he was sure that Rafael did. The student would be reluctant to tell him, since Marco was not another Strega. But that he would, Marco had no doubt. He would just have to be persuasive.

At the moment, Marco was certain he could persuade a stone to talk. Compared to everything else, persuasion seemed the easiest task in the world.

Chapter 66 ==========

This has all been too easy.

Luciano Marina had worked his way back into his old life so smoothly that he was worried. Granted, he had not attempted to reach most of his former adherents among the Strega. Granted also, he had not practiced any magic without so many protections that the air was thick with them, literally. Still.

He had made some contacts . . . carefully, and a very few. Claudia and Valentina, a pair of Strega entertainers whose eyes and ears were always open and who had, in their turn, contacts everywhere. Itzaak ben Joseph, a Kabbalistic mage and goldsmith, whose clients ranged from the Casa Vecchie to a very recent arrival at Casa Louise, who--as Luciano alone knew, thanks to Itzaak--had up to that moment been a popular "entertainer" at the House of the Red Cat. Sister Evangelina and Father Mascoli of the Order of Saint Hypatia, who had always been friendly to the Strega. Father Palladio, who taught anatomy to the students of medicine at the Accademia. He would very much have liked to have more trusted contacts among his fellow Strega. Sadly, though they were well intentioned they were often lamentably loose tongued.

That was probably why poor Despini had been found floating. He had, said old rumor, been alerted to something very evil coming to Venice; he had certainly made the attempt to fill in the gap in Strega leadership that Luciano's own disappearance had left.

But the first rumor--that Despini had learned of something very evil with its eye on the pearl that was Venice . . . Very evil. As evil as that which Marina had seen in his vision? If so, that evil had a name, and it was a thing that Luciano was not prepared to confront. Not yet.

The Lion was stirring, true, and no longer in slumber. But neither was it awake yet--and waking it was a major and very dangerous ceremony, which also required the presence of . . . certain persons. Without the Lion, Luciano could do very little against the black evil that threatened Venice.

He shivered. He hated even to think the name of that evil, for fear of attracting its attention.

He had not moved back into his former set of rooms in the complex of buildings that loosely comprised the Accademia. For one thing, they were already occupied by someone else; for another, moving back into them would be like issuing a challenge. Instead, Luciano Marina--using his true name, since he saw no reason not to, being as he was assumed to be dead--had taken this little furnished room. Comfortable enough, with the advantage of having a back door even the landlord didn't know about, a door that had been paneled over until Luciano divined its presence and surreptitiously restored it. It let out into a private courtyard, but if Luciano had to escape some night, he wasn't going to be too particular about whose sensibilities he offended at the time. This sort of arrangement of doors and windows being paneled over happened all the time, when men of wealth fell on hard times and had to sell or lease their former manors, which then were carved up into individual dwellings. It had even happened to Casa Vecchie families. Even Casa Longi.

Poor little Katerina. The fortunes of the Montescues had not prospered in the time he'd been gone, although there was a part of that which could be laid at the old man's door, wasting endless amounts of money on that stupid attempt to destroy Casa Valdosta, root and branch.

Old fool.

But Luciano, now huddled over his brazier as the evening mists crept in and the air grew cold and damp, did not have a great deal of time or pity to waste on his former pupil and her family. He was collecting information, and he needed as much of it as he could gather, as fast as he could bring it in.

He had questions, but there was one thing that he had no doubt of. The hand of true evil was stretched towards Venice, and it had at least one finger firmly planted within the city.

Finger? Call it a claw, a talon.

Who, for a start. Who was the nun with the dead eyes? If there was a vessel for that talon, it was surely her, but who was she? To what Order did she belong? The Servants of the Trinity? If that was so, then how could such a creature have gotten into the ranks of those most fully dedicated to fighting it at all costs? How could they possibly miss the signs of such evil?

What? What was the monster he had seen in the scrying-mirror, the thing that was surely a servant of the Great Evil if not another vessel for it--the monster that was killing in such a horrible manner, the monster that could seemingly reach anyone, anywhere?

Why? What was the ultimate plan here? Luciano was quite certain by now that the Great Evil lurking behind these machinations took the form of the Grand Duke of Lithuania. But why was the duke so interested in Venice? At a glance, there seemed no logic to it.

And, a very, very urgent question--when? There would be an attack on the city, of that Luciano was now also certain. So--when? Who would be the major players?

His vision had shown him some of those players: Lucrezia Brunelli and her brother Ricardo, the nun, another churchman who was certainly wearing the cassock of the Servants of the Trinity. Another question, just how many plots were there building to a climax, and how many of them were interwoven? What he had seen was--he thought--the sources of danger to Venice; which, since these things were of necessity biased towards the attitude of the seeker, meant Venice as he knew it. Now, Lucrezia and Ricardo could, together or separately, have plans for Venice involving alliances outside the borders of the city-state that would certainly destroy the fabric of the city as he knew it, but did that mean they were allied to the Great Evil? And if they were, did they know it? The Sots--

Well, the Sots and presumably the Knots, fanatical Paulines as they were, would be only too happy to purge the city with fire and the sword of anything that was not of their own rigidly defined Christian path. That would certainly destroy Venice, but that did not mean they were allied with the Great Evil.

Ah, but one did not need to be allied with or a part of something to serve it.

What could he do? Well, he could, at the least, move to protect a few people, who had no protections of their own. Little Kat, for instance. He had once held that Hypatian medal of hers in his own two hands, and that once was enough for him to invest it with far more power than the mere wardings it contained. Now that he knew the reality of . . . It . . . in his city, he could do something specific.

But first, his protections.

He moved his bits of furniture against the wall, picked up the rug--a sadly worn import from Persia--and flipped it over. No one but another mage would ever have guessed what he'd had bonded onto the back of this old rug.

A pentagram within a protective circle, formed of bitumen mixed with blessed salt--courtesy of Sister Evangelina--and the pulverized dust of pearls and gemstones, frankincense, myrrh-gum, ambergris, copal resin, and cinnabar. A coating of artist's varnish sealed it and allowed it to be painted over with the appropriate symbols, then sealed again. Before he went to work, Luciano went over the entire diagram with his nose mere inches from the painted cloth, looking for cracks and flaws. Today there were none; had there been any, he would have immediately repaired them. Never mind that the energies were supposed to be able to flow across any such defects; in these circumstances, he dared not take any chances. Once he was done, he blew out all the lanterns in his room but one, set up his tiny altar in the middle of the pentacle, then blew out that final lamp before feeling his way to the altar.

He lit a single candle on the altar, with a spark of magic.

He cast his circle three times three, with each element--salt for earth, incense for air, a candle-flame for fire, and water. Then he traced it again, three times three, with his ritual white dagger, made, not of human bone as the Paulines claimed, but the leg bone of a fine buck-deer. And again, three times three, with the black dagger, carved of obsidian-glass from the heart of a volcano. When he was done, a faintly glowing border followed the outermost line of his circle.

He took up the bowl of water and whispered a blessing over it, then held it up to the east. "Guardian of the spirits of the water, guardian of the creatures of the water, I summon thee from thy dwelling place in the Uttermost East to stand as Watchtower, to witness my rites and guard my work."

As he flicked a single drop of water towards the east, a pillar of blue light sprang up out of nowhere, reaching from floor to ceiling, as if it was some arcane support pillar.

He turned to his right, to the west, and took up the candle. "Guardian of the spirits of fire, guardian of the creatures of fire, I summon thee. . . ."

When his invocations were complete, four tall pillars of light--blue, red, green, and yellow--stood within his glowing circle, which was now a glowing floor-to-ceiling wall stretching in a curve along the curve of the painted circle on the rug. But his protections were not yet complete, for now he would do what no Christian mage ever dared. He would invoke his deity. The Goddess, not the God--he had a sense that the monster he had seen might once have been linked in to some northern deity--Odin, perhaps, or Thor. It might be . . . impolitic . . . to invoke the Lord at the moment. Let Him decide whether or not to act on His own; there was no point in trying to force His hand.

He faced the altar, with the triple-moon sculpture of hammered bronze, and the ancient Cretan axe that was also Her symbol. "Lady of the night, Lady of the moon, you who have been Isis, Astarte, Tiamet, Diana, Artemis, Aphrodite, Rhiannon, Inana, I call and invoke thee to witness my work and guard my rituals--"

He didn't necessarily expect a response; you could invoke all you wanted, but whether or not She chose to bless you with Her presence was up to Her. But this time--

This time, with no warning at all, the inside of his circle was flooded with powerful, silvery light. The Lady of the moon not only approved, but She was minded to take a hand.

Thank you, he whispered, feeling much humbled, and bent over his scrying bowl. He had to find Kat. Then he had to fence her in with a subtle web of power that would cut any thrice-damned Odin-creature to ribbons before it even knew the protections were there.

And then--well, he would see what occurred to him.

* * *

He was startled by a knock on the door. He wasn't expecting any visitors at all. But, since the knock had consisted of the special signal he'd told his few confidants to use--two short, two long, three short, one long--he went to the door and opened it immediately.

He was more than startled to see Marco standing there. "How--"

"Rafael told me," said Marco. The boy's face seemed full of suppressed anguish. "Please, Chiano--I have to talk to you."

* * *

After Luciano heard what Marco had to say, he rubbed his face wearily. "Is happiness so much to ask for?" he murmured.

But he did not dwell on the matter. He had asked the Goddess that question many times, in his life. He would ask it no longer.

No more softness!

"Marco," he said quietly, "Venice is in the gravest danger. At such a time, you must think of your responsibilities. You don't even know this canaler-girl's surname. You know nothing about her family--or even, to be honest, she herself."

Marco's face was set in a stubborn cast. Luciano sighed. "Speak to the girl if you must, before you make your final decision. But I will tell you this, boy. I can think of nothing you could do which would strengthen Venice more than to weld Valdosta reborn--and Dell'este--to the house of Dorma."

Except a marriage between Valdosta and Montescue, came the whimsical thought. But Marina dismissed the notion as a ridiculous fancy. Lodovico Montescue would disrupt any such wedding by having the groom assassinated as he walked to the altar.

"The Valdosta name, which is still a powerful thing, would give weight to Petro Dorma's position. And, as I'm sure you've come to realize yourself, he's the best of the lot. Potentially, the leadership which Venice will need--does need, already."

Marco hung his head. He was listening, at least. Marina started to add more, but decided not to do so. Anything more, at this point, would be counterproductive. Marco Valdosta had a fierce sense of honor. Give the boy time, and he would make the right decision.

"I've got to talk to Kat," he whispered. When he lifted his head, his eyes were blurred with tears. The sight was heart-breaking.

"Talk to her then," said Luciano. "But please, Marco--remember your responsibilities."

It was time to change the subject. "So. When are you being officially presented to the city?"

Marco smiled wanly. "Tomorrow night, at the Doge's Levee."

"Splendid!"

"I think I'd rather go anywhere else," muttered Marco. "Even the Jesolo."

Chapter 67 ==========

Kat was whistling. A terrible un-genteel habit, as Alessandra told her frequently. Right now the thought of that made her want to whistle louder. She wanted to practice being un-genteel. And besides, happiness was bubbling up in her.

Her joy seemed to be affecting everything. The last cargo had come through, perfectly. The Montescue's tiny share as part of a Colleganza of a wood shipment to Alexandria had paid off handsomely, the merchant having come up with a return cargo of ivory . . . which had caught the current fashion for marquetry just in the upswing. It had made them a tidy profit. Not enough to tow the Casa Montescue out of the river tick but enough to make it seem as if there might--eventually--be a light on the horizon.

And she'd be seeing Marco again on Thursday. She hugged herself. Two days. She should have made it sooner. But, well, she didn't want it to appear too much as if she was chasing him.

Even the thought of tonight's levee at the Doge's palace could not upset her. If Senor Lopez was there and wanted to talk to her . . . well, he had no real evidence. Mind you, even the thought of that eagle gaze was enough to put a damper on her mood. He wasn't the sort who needed "evidence." She shook off the thought and took her mind back to Marco Felluci. It wasn't hard. And the thoughts were pleasant as she waited for Madelena to come down and help her dress for the levee.

* * *

A levee at the Doge's palace . . . Marco was so nervous he could hardly think straight. All the haut monde of Venice would be there, Case Vecchie, rising merchant houses, distinguished foreign visitors, ambassadors and nobility. All the power and glitter of Venice. Marco had looked across the piazza past the winged lion of Saint Mark at the colonnaded Gothic palace often. But to be inside?!

* * *

The inside was a place of confusion, light, and above all, people. Musicians--no mean performers either--played in a side salon. Nobody kept quiet for them, however; people simply continued their light inconsequential chatter and laughter. If anyone had dared treat Valentina and Claudia's music thus! Marco was introduced to yet another Case Vecchie family head. He bowed politely for the . . . he'd lost count. No wonder the Case Vecchie went slumming at Barducci's.

"Valdosta, eh?" said the florid Count Antonelli. "That's one of the old names we haven't heard for a while. Where have you been, boy?"

"With his grandfather, Duke Dell'este," interposed Petro Dorma smoothly.

The Count nodded. "So, boy--which way is Ferrara leaning? Venice, Milan . . . or Rome?"

Yes, these were worrying times. Ferrara had for the better part of century stood by Venice, but keeping its independence. Then the Venetians had demanded the salt pans, and Ferrara had balked and called on Rome--and even, for a time, threatened alliance with Milan. Who, for its part, had sent no less of a condottiere than Carlo Sforza to pay a friendly visit to Ferrara . . . a visit to which, Marco suspected, he ultimately owed his brother.

It had all blown over, eventually. But . . . by the presence of that sword in the Casa Dorma, the storm was brewing again.

Marco was not prepared for the direct question. For the simplest reason: he had no idea what the old duke was planning to do.

"My grandfather keeps his own council, milord."

"Yes, but . . ."

"I see the majordomo is beckoning to us, Count Antonelli," interrupted Petro. "Pardon us. I must find my sister and take my new ward to be presented to the Doge."

Petro steered Marco away across the salon to where Angelina was talking to a tall, beautifully made up woman with a neat little mole above her rosebud mouth, standing in the circle that surrounded Lucrezia Brunelli. They were laughing. The woman gave Marco a very considering look as Petro snagged his sister and led them off to meet Doge Foscari.

* * *

Kat was preparing herself for the sheer delight of giving Signor Sergio Della Galbo the finest put-down of his obnoxious life. The fat curti had cornered her again. But knowing how her grandfather felt, and having met her soulmate, Katerina Montescue was going to tell this disgusting old roue where to get off. In training for a life as Katerina Felluci she was going to use some choice canaler terms she'd picked up from Maria.

And then her grandfather came storming up, towing Alessandra. His lined face was as pale as his snowy linen. His eyes bulged. Alessandra was looking terrified and wasn't even protesting. "Come," was all the old man said. Very quietly.

Della Galbo protested. "Get lost, worm!" snapped Kat, pushing past him to her grandfather. She slid an arm around the old man. "What is wrong, Grandpapa?" she asked, worried. The last time she seen him like this was when they'd brought the news of Alessandra's baby's death. Normally, if he was angry, the whole countryside knew about it.

"Valdosta." He spat the name out as if it were a curse. "They're not all dead, girl. I told you some of the vermin still survived. But I never thought I'd see them here, bold as brass, under the protection of Casa Dorma." He pointed.

She was glad she had her arm around the solid if elderly stanchion of her grandfather. Walking, head bent forward in the listening pose she knew so well, had studied so lovingly . . . was Marco Felluci. He was listening to Petro Dorma and that horrible spoiled brat, Angelina Dorma. Marco was not wearing Ventuccio livery, or old canaler clothes. He was dressed in a silk shirt, and fine hose, with a cloak that could have bought Maria's gondola. There was gold on his finger.

"Who--who is that?" she asked, in a small wooden voice, feeling stupid, stunned, her world in chaos.

Her grandfather hissed like a leaky kettle. "Calls himself 'Marco Valdosta.' They claim he's been in Ferrara. With the Dell'este. That's another Valdosta lie. I'm quite sure he's the same one I tried to have assassinated here in Venice last year--and failed, I'm sorry to say."

For a moment, Kat thought she might faint.

"Now come," growled Lodovico. "We're going home."

* * *

Kat sat on her bed. She had neither the will, nor, it seemed, the ability to do more than stare at the wall. Madelena had fussed her charge into a nightgown. Gently and quietly this once, seeing Katerina behaving like some porcelain doll, obedient but mechanical, and silent.

Even Alessandra coming in to her room didn't excite any reaction. Madelena crossed herself.

Alessandra was big with excitement. "Well! What a scene. I thought the old fool was going to drop dead on us. That Valdosta's not bad looking, is he? Although I prefer more rugged men, myself. Still, that Angelina Dorma seems pleased enough with her catch."

"WHAT!?"

Alessandra prattled on. "They say she's getting married to the Valdosta boy. Lucrezia said it has to be pretty soon, because she's already carrying his baby."

The roaring in Katerina's ears refused to be stilled. Even Alessandra noticed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Lead was lighter. "I feel sick."

"Are you pregnant?" said Alessandra, eager for more fuel.

This was enough to penetrate Kat's armor of confusion and misery. "No!" she snapped. "But if I left it to you, half the town would say I was. And I'll bet all this gossip is just as true as my pregnancy."

Alessandra shrugged and turned her shoulder. She sniffed. "And I suppose Grandfather isn't talking about finding a decent assassin to get rid of the brat."

"Be real, Alessandra," said Katerina a terrible sinking feeling in her gut. . . . He could. He hated the Valdosta name bitterly. "Like we need to open warfare with Dorma. Or even Duke Dell'este."

Alessandra shrugged an elegant shoulder. "I suggested he hire Aldanto. He could do it quietly."

"Caesare! Ha! He knows Mar . . . Valdosta too well," a curious mix of fear and misery betrayed Kat into speaking before she thought.

Alessandra pounced on her. "And how do you know Caesare Aldanto? You keep away from him Katerina." She laughed. A humorless, bitter sound. "He's too strong a meat for you."

Alessandra turned and walked out, with a parting snort.

It took Kat a few minutes of mulling to suddenly wonder. How did her sister-in-law--married at seventeen from a cloistered background into a sheltered and restrictive Case Vecchie family--know someone like Caesare Aldanto at all?

Sleep was not going to come tonight. She got up and put on a dressing gown, and went up to her grandfather's study.

He was sitting there staring at his tallies. He wasn't looking, just staring. He didn't even see her come in. She had to put an arm around his shoulder before he noticed her.

He sighed. "Ah Katerina, cara mia. I had begun to see some small hope from the Casa Montescue. A future for you, a dowry." He sighed again. "Now . . . Valdosta."

She hugged the hunched shoulders. "Grandpapa . . . I know they are our enemy . . . but I've never asked . . . why?"

He snorted. "Never wanted to make me angry by even mentioning the name, is what you mean." He rubbed his face wearily. "The two houses were once allies--even friends. We go back far into the history of the Venice. Luciano--that was Luciano Valdosta--he used to joke that it was a Valdosta and Montescue that witnessed the meeting between Saint Mark and the winged Lion. He said the Montescue was busy stealing Saint Mark's fish and the Valdosta, not to be outdone, was stealing the whole boat . . . Luciano and me. We were like that." The old man twisted his fingers over each other. "People used to say 'Luci and Lodo'--here comes trouble."

Lodovico Montescue sighed. "It wasn't really like that. I used to get us into trouble and Luciano would get us out. He was a good man . . . deep down. Not like his son, Fabio." The old face was contorted into a scowl. "Luciano would have married my sister: your great-aunt Fiorenza. But he got involved with the Montagnards from Milan. He and I had a fight. The first time ever . . . It's a long story. But then he married Viviana. And there was bad blood between us and the two houses didn't speak.

"But I missed him, truth to tell. There wasn't a day when I didn't think I'd been stupid. I even sent a message over once. It came back, torn up. Then, when Luciano was killed in a freak accident over at the boatyard . . . I went to the funeral. To pay my respects to a man I loved. And that little pig Fabio screamed at me and denounced me for killing his father. Right there in the church! He swore revenge. I was angry, true. But--out of respect for the Church and for Luciano--I didn't throttle him right there. I should have. He paid us back with black magic. You can put the death of your mother, your aunt Rosa, your brother, and even my grandson down to him. Even a baby at his door.

"He fled to Ferrara with that silly foreign-born wife of his before I could take action. The Signori di Notte and the Doge claimed it was plague, but I didn't believe it for a moment. Then Fabio got himself killed in a fight with some mercenary. But that wife of his continued the vendetta when she came back here, I'm sure of it. Very low she was then, thinking she could get away with her Montagnard activities by pretending to be a mere shopkeeper. She and her Montagnard friends organized against our house. I'm sure they're responsible for your father's disappearance."

Even as angry as Kat was at anything remotely "Valdosta," her grandfather's theories seemed . . . well, insane.

He sighed. Ruffled her hair. "I suppose it all sounds insane. And . . . perhaps it is. At least, that's what--ah, a good friend of mine tells me. She may well be right. But if I've given up the vendetta--not that we could afford one against Dell'este as well as Valdosta anyway--I haven't given up my sentiments. Now, be off to bed, minx."

Kat went. But not to sleep. Before dawn she dressed in her canal-going clothes and hooded cloak and went out.

* * *

"I missed you at the levee tonight," yawned Francesca, tying up her robe. As she led Kat into the salon, the courtesan glanced at the window, still covered with curtains. The sun was just beginning to rise and its light, filtered through the expensive cloth, bathed the room in a soft velvety glow. "Or last night, I suppose I should say. I just got home myself, and was about to go to bed."

The courtesan examined Kat's clothing and grinned sleepily. "Congratulations, by the way. How in the world did you manage to talk your way into Casa Louise dressed like that?"

Abashed, now that she was actually inside Francesca's apartment, Kat glanced uneasily at the door to Francesca's bedroom. The door was open.

Francesca's grin widened, and became less sleepy. "Relax. I don't usually entertain my clients here any longer. Except Manfred, of course, since I refuse to smuggle myself past that gaggle of knights at the embassy. And . . . one other, who wants to keep our liaison a secret from his closest relative."

Kat tried to find the right words. Then, when she couldn't find any words at all, burst into tears.

Francesca's grin vanished. "Come, come, little one," she crooned, folding Kat into an embrace the way a mother or a big sister might, "it can't be that bad."

"Yes it can!" wailed Kat. And proceeded, in the ensuing time of babbled words, to prove her point. Or try to, at least.

* * *

By the time she was done, Francesca was standing at the window, looking at the canal below through a curtain she had drawn partly aside with a finger.

"You could probably nip it in the bud, you know," the courtesan mused. "This budding marriage between Casa Dorma and Casa Valdosta, I mean."

She removed her finger, allowing the curtain to sway back into place, and cocked her head toward Kat. "I heard the rumors myself, last night. A marriage of convenience, driven partly by politics and partly by the crude fact that Angelina Dorma is pregnant. Nothing more than that."

"Nothing more!?" choked Kat. "It's still a marriage, Francesca! And--" She choked again. Then, in a whisper: "Pregnant? By Marco?"

Francesca shrugged. "That seems to be the assumption. Myself, I wouldn't--"

"That bastard!" shrilled Kat. "That--"

"Katerina!"

The sharpness in Francesca's tone jolted her. "Yes?"

The courtesan was frowning. "Before you get too carried away with your own self-righteousness . . . A question: Did you ever tell this young man exactly who you were?"

Kat's face closed down. "No."

"Why not?"

After a moment, between tight lips: "Because."

Francesca chuckled dryly. "Ah, right. 'Because.' Oh, you Venetian Case Vecchie! How quick you are to condemn others for your own sins."

Kat couldn't meet that sarcastic gaze. "My grandfather . . ." she whispered, trying to summon up a protest.

" 'Your grandfather,' " mimicked Francesca. "And you think Marco Valdosta isn't also thinking of a grandfather? A grandfather in a desperate position of his own, you know. Which an alliance with Casa Dorma in Venice would go a long way toward improving."

But Kat was in no mood to be calm and objective, much less charitable. "It's because she's pregnant," she hissed. "That bastard. Telling me--while he was--with her--"

"Go home, Kat," said Francesca wearily. "I'm tired, and you are obviously not willing to think. If you were, you might realize--"

"I'm not listening to any more!" snapped Kat, jumping to her feet. "I hate him!" She rushed for the entrance.

"Don't slam the door on your--"

Kat slammed the door on the way out.

* * *

Ugo Boldoni's poor little church was thinly attended for Lauds. It was not hard for him to spot an extra person in a hooded cloak, who waited until his early morning parishioners had left. He went back into the church where Katerina was waiting.

"And now, Katerina?" he asked the white-faced young woman who was standing chewing her lip, looking at the ground.

Katerina half-mumbled the next words. "Ugo, you're the only priest that I've known since we were both children . . . I need to find something out. I need to find out if someone is getting married."

Father Boldoni shrugged. "The banns will be read."

Kat shook her head. "I need to know now. I need to know . . . is . . . Marco Valdosta marrying Angelina Dorma?

"Not in my parish."

"Oh." Kat took another deep breath. "Well, can you find out for me? Please. I need to know now. Please."

Ugo took pity on her. "As it happens, I was at the palace of the Metropolitan only yesterday. Having a meeting about witchcraft--with Senor Eneko Lopez, as it happens, that Basque priest who seems to terrify everyone." He chuckled dryly. "I'll admit he somehow manages to be, simultaneously, one of the most frightening and inspiring men I've ever met. In the course of it, Lord Petro Dorma did come in to make some enquiries about the marriage of his sister. Soon."

"To . . . whom? And . . . and they're getting married in a hurry? W-why?" she faltered.

Ugo shrugged again. "I am the priest of a poor parish. They didn't confide in me. But I imagine for the usual reasons, Katerina. Is she a friend of yours?" Then the thought struck him. "Or--is he? I thought the Valdosta name was bad word with the Casa Montescue."

"I hate both of them," said Kat between clenched teeth and stormed out, not even genuflecting to the altar as she left.

* * *

Before Kat went back to her bed there was one last job to do. She stopped at Giaccomo's and left a brief note, before going home. Her chin was held high.

Chapter 68 ==========

Marco sat, patiently. Well, impatiently. Kat had always been on time. Unlike Angelina. He'd only been a couple of weeks in Casa Dorma, and her attitude to time was already grating him. Almost everything was held up slightly for Angelina. She'd be late for her own funeral. Kat--he got the feeling--wouldn't ever be late without reason.

So Marco sat and sipped his wine, making it last.

And Kat just never showed. He waited. He had to talk to her. Petro was doing his best not to be impatient, but well, the days of Angelina's pregnancy were ticking past. You could claim a six-month child but not less than that.

It was quarter to twelve, and Marco was about to abandon hope, when Maria came in. Marco had "dressed down" for the occasion but still his appearance caused Maria to snort--half derision, half admiration. "Mighty smart. Mighty fine," she said dryly. "Where's the young girl sitting on your knee, Marco Valdosta?"

Marco blushed. "I was waiting for Kat. But not to sit down on my knee. I . . . I have to talk to her."

Maria smiled. "Well, she sent you a note. Which is why I'm here instead of in my bed. See. Them--those--reading lessons are paying off. I can manage your name at least. I just picked it up at Giaccomo's. Figured you'd be here tonight."

Of course. He'd known he could rely on Kat. And to send him a note to explain was just like her. A world apart from Angelina. Angelina only seemed good at thinking of herself. No worries about that with Kat.

* * *

Maria could see worries were weighing on the boy. But he lightened up with that scroll . . . Kat was good for him. And they were both Case Vecchie now. Funny, it did far more than a year's living with Caesare had done to convince Maria that nobles were just human too. Because, if she had it right, Marco's blood ought to be blue. She'd seen it. It was definitely just ordinary red. Maria watched as Marco cracked the wafer. Unrolled the scroll.

And she watched his face change . . . Marco had a very open face. First surprise. Then hurt. And then his face closed down. He rolled the scroll up again and stood up.

"I'm probably getting married in the next few days," he said abruptly.

Maria felt as if her eyes would pop out. "What! To Kat?"

"To Angelina Dorma." His voice was expressionless.

Maria floundered. "But . . . but . . ." Those Dorma bastards wanted to lock him in! Well, she owed Kat. "That's far too soon, Marco," she said, firmly. Her mind raced. She'd have to get Benito in on this. The damn scamp didn't approve of Kat, for some stupid reason. But anything--anything!--was better than Angelina. Even if she had to tell Benito that Kat was also Case Vecchie. He'd been pestering her to reveal the identity of her posh friend. . . .

"I can't. She's nearly four months pregnant," said Marco, woodenly.

Maria caught her jaw. "Ah . . .who's the father?" she croaked.

Marco paused. Looked her straight in the eye. "I am," he said in a dead level voice.

And he turned and walked out.

* * *

Petro Dorma looked grim. "I'm sorry, Marco. Only the Signori di Notte knew, until an hour before. That means somehow someone must have bought one of them. But the Badoero were gone."

Marco felt flattened. Caesare's ploy hadn't worked. Caesare had been sure if Petro could arrest the Badoero they'd confess, quickly enough to tell just whom the real go-between was. He had ascribed Angelina's accusation to spite.

"Of course Paulo knew the way here. He was Ernesto Dorma's confidential runner. I did some business with Ernesto. Commercial information. Valuable if not glamorous. And for heaven's sake, yes. Marry Angelina Dorma," he'd said. His words were fresh in Marco's mind.

Petro sighed. "Well, we're no closer, Marco. We still don't know how my mother got the stuff--even if we know where she used to. You don't feel you could just . . ."

"Marry Angelina now," said Marco quietly. "Yes."

Petro breathed a sigh of relief. "Well. Thank you, Marco. I can't deny I am pleased. . . . She always was father's favorite. We lost my other sister in the plague . . . And 'Gelina got . . . rather spoiled by Mother too after that. She's used to getting her own way. But, well, she'll be handsomely dowered. And we'll be happy to have you as part of the family."

He smiled. "Dorma is not as old as Valdosta, but we're prosperous. And, well, I predict that the Republic is going to have a rough time in the next few years. The Doge is old, the succession is not as clear cut as Ricardo Brunelli imagines it is." He patted Marco on the shoulder. "I trust you, Marco. I trust that Dell'este honor. I trust the name 'Valdosta' too. It was a proud one in my father's time. I'd rather have it with Dorma than against us, and many of the longi Case Vecchie will rally to it."

Marco had never thought of his name as a political point. "Never rich though," he said quietly.

"Oh, not lately. But the family used to work with another Casa--the Montescue--in my grandfather's time. Organizing Colleganzas. I can still remember my grandfather cursing them and saying it seemed like they could do nothing wrong. Like the shadow of the Lion was on them. Anyway, to practical details. I've spoken to the Metropolitan. He has agreed to let pass with just one reading of the banns. The wedding itself . . . will be something of a political affair, Marco. I want it clear in a lot of minds that the Valdosta are under the protection of the Casa Dorma. So the guest list will not be friends. In fact, some of them may have had a hand in your mother's death."

He paused, took a turn around the table. Took a deep breath. "Your sudden 'reappearance' has started just a little buzz about 'witchcraft.' I need to squash that. Would you be prepared to take a test of faith from Father Sachs of the Servants of the Holy Trinity before the service?"

Marco nodded. He was, after all, no heretic, and knew no reason to fear . . . except knowing that Sophia and Luciano used Strega magic in their healing and that some of the herbs he'd dealt in were "blessed." Even the frightening Pauline monks could find no real stain on his soul, surely? Like this wedding, it was nothing to be afraid of.

Dorma studied him for a moment. "The sooner we can do this wedding the better, Marco. I've already quietly cleared the way. If you are certain . . ."

Marco shrugged. He could hear a little voice somewhere inside shrieking at him--too fast! too fast! you haven't even talked to Kat!--but he ignored it resolutely. Kat's letter had been . . . harsh and angry.

"Yes, I'm certain." His voice sounded hollow. "Do it tomorrow, if you wish."

Again, Dorma heaved a sigh of relief. Then, shook his head and smiled. "That'd be a bit rushed, Marco. How about the day after tomorrow?"

When Marco nodded his head, even his head felt hollow.

* * *

"You seen Kat?"

Benito knew Maria's work patterns well enough to know she'd deliberately waited around to speak to him this morning. He shook his head. "Not in a while. Since that night at Zianetti's. She keeps herself to herself, does that Kat."

Maria sighed. "I need to talk to her. Even if Caesare says to leave her alone."

Curiosity and protective instinct rose in Benito. He'd promised Caesare . . . "What about?"

"Nothing to do with you," Maria snapped. She paused, looking uncomfortable. "Well, I guess he is your brother."

Benito had it now. "Marco's getting married has nothing to do with Kat, Maria. It's . . . it's Case Vecchie stuff. They don't marry for love. It's all for politics and money. Caesare explained. Kat's . . . she's trouble. A canal girl. Marco can't . . . He doesn't have that choice. And . . . Oh hell. Don't cry, Maria."

Maria sniffed determinedly. "You don't know everything, Benito Valdosta. More like, you know very little."

Benito handed over an embroidered handkerchief that had belonged to a Case Vecchie lady only yesterday. You had to keep your hand in even if you weren't going to make a regular thing of the snatch. He offered a cautious pat, and was rewarded by a roundhouse swing. She was feeling better. "Si. I don't like it much either, Maria. But Dorma will look after Marco. And I don't know where to look for Kat."

Maria shook her head. "I've been to her house. Twice. The first time I left a note under the water-door."

Benito cleared his throat, unsure what to say. He'd been helping her with her reading and writing now that Marco had moved out. Maria wasn't stupid. But like most women--except courtesans--she was illiterate. She could tally like anything. But her writing was still limited to her name and a few words.

"I kept it simple," she snapped. "But she didn't come, so I went around. The old man said she wasn't there. I was kind of hoping you'd seen her. Or might know where else to look. I've got to talk to her before Marco goes off--idiot!--and gets married."

Benito shook his head. "I'll keep an eye out for her. But it's too late, Maria. It's as good as done. I wondered if I should have gone, but Marco said 'stay away.' He's having the test of faith before the wedding tomorrow--an' he didn't want me around. Besides . . . he said it wasn't like it was going to be a real marriage or anything."

Maria looked stormy. "You should have stopped him, Benito! You could have stopped him."

Benito felt uncomfortable. That had been his first, irrational reaction. But he'd talked it over with Caesare . . . "You don't understand."

Maria lifted her square chin. "I do understand, Benito Valdosta. Maybe you will one day."

She turned and left, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Caesare, when he came down a few minutes later, was in a far better mood. "I had word last night that the job you pulled for me getting that door open over at the Accademia has paid off handsomely. First time I've ever been paid by two separate parties for the same job. You'll need to do a spot of running for me this evening. I can't really go to either place. But there'll be a bit of coin in it for you, Benito."

Benito grinned. "That was a piece of cake. Cloister doorlocks aren't much."

Caesare shook his head. "Forget you were ever there. Don't make a noise about how you got that coin, when you spend it."

Benito nodded. "Actually, I'm not going to spend it. I'm going to invest it."

This brought a snort of amusement from Caesare. "Spoken like a true Veneze. And what great venture are you becoming an investor in? Second-hand scarf business?"

"Nah," said Benito. "A couple of us over at Ventuccio . . . we wanted to get in with a Colleganza for the galley convoy. We've got an insider hot tip. Silver is right up in Outremer right now. We can make a killing. You want in, milord?"

Caesare laughed. "A killing! No, boy. I don't think I'll put money on that convoy."

"It's a great-galley convoy! Safe as houses. Come on, Caesare. You've got real money. We 'uns'll get a tiny share."

That hooded look came over Caesare. "No."

Uncomfortable now, Benito decided to change the subject. "I've been thinking," he said, looking at the stack of three bright ducats on the table, his reward for the two collection runs well done. "I should put two o' these into the housekeeping." Maria managed the finances of the house. And Benito had heard her swearing about them enough lately.

Caesare shook his head, and pushed the ducats toward him. "Put them in your pocket. You just keep your mouth shut about this windfall, Benito. You don't even tell Maria. I'll sort out housekeeping."

Benito nodded. Still, it was enough to get him thinking about his two shadowy pickups. Both in the same part of town. And both, unless one of Caesare's male clients had an odd taste in scent, female. One had been using a nun's habit for disguise. He totally failed to see the other. But he'd smelt her.

Chapter 69 ==========

"I'm terrified of weddings, Erik," said Manfred grumpily. "You catch deadly diseases at them. And with Sachs there, I won't be able to do the good part . . . you know. Get drunk afterwards."

Erik snorted. He had to wear full armor for the occasion again. That worried him more than a mere wedding ceremony. "What deadly disease?"

"Matrimony. You can die of boredom, I've been told."

Erik snorted again. "I am going to save that up and tell your wife. And then you are going to be in trouble. Deep trouble. Manfred, he asked for us specifically. It is that Venetian grandee, Dorma, whom we helped with the Dandelos. His sister is getting married. It's a compliment. Sachs is delighted."

Manfred traced the outline of the caryatid on Erik's bedpost. "So we're going. Erik, I sent a private message off to my uncle yesterday. I asked Von Stemitz to take it with him on his trip to Mainz. Whatever Sachs and the knight-bishops are doing keeping the Knights of the Trinity in Venice . . . it isn't in the Emperor's interest. The last thing Charles Fredrik wants is to be involved in a civil war down here in Italy, no matter what these Montagnard-Pauline fanatics think about one Holy Roman Emperor over all the Christian world. We have the Aquitaines on our western flank, the damned Grand Duke of Lithuania on our northeastern flank and the King of Hungary on the southeastern--with both of them creeping down into the Black Sea. We need trouble to the south in Italy like we need a hole in the head. He should know about the situation here."

Erik nodded, hiding a grin. Francesca's influence was considerable. She plainly enjoyed this game of politics, and Manfred, too lazy and too obstinate to do it when driven, was letting his private parts lead him into this. Perhaps Charles Fredrik should hire her as an instructor of heirs. "Yes. The Knights are supposed to be independent soldiers of Christ, defenders of Christendom. But they're perceived by many--most, probably--to be the arm militant of the Empire, not the Church. And I get the feeling that the reality is the other way around. They're trying to use the Empire as the political arm of their faction of the Church. Some of the leaders of the Knights, anyway--along with the Servants, I don't doubt."

Manfred nodded in turn. "Power games. Charles Fredrik needs to rein them in."

Erik could almost see him taking it down in his mind. He'd bet he'd repeat it to Francesca within the next few days. Erik sighed quietly. It was all very well Erik's father telling him to stay out of politics. "Your loyalty is to the Godar Hohenstauffen, boy. Let them enjoy their wrangles." If Manfred was going to survive, he had to understand these wrangles, as much as he had to understand swordplay.

"So." Erik poked him in the ribs. "What are you lolling around for? We have to be at the church for the test of faith before this wedding. We've got barely an hour before Abbot Sachs is going to be squalling for his escort."

Manfred stood up. "Easy on those ribs. Between you and the hammering they take from Giuliano at the salle d'armes of his, I'm too tender for Francesca to appreciate me."

Erik began hauling out the quilted underclothes for their armor. Well suited to armor; ill suited to Venetian summer. "And we're no closer to finding out whether he had anything to do with killing Father Belgio yet," he grumbled. More brightly: "But my rapier-work is coming on."

"Yes, Giuliano said you were better than a blind drunken cow with a rapier handle up its butt . . . but only just." Manfred retreated, grinning, out of the door, bellowing for Erik's squire-orderly as he went.

He left Erik to his preparations and reflections. Giuliano insulted them both copiously. But he had rapidly moved them under his own, personal tuition. Very few attained that. And while Manfred's weapons of choice would always be dictated by his strength, they were both picking up techniques . . . techniques that could kill armored, broad-sword-wielding knights. Lessons that should be part of their armory of skills. It was high time the Knights of the Holy Trinity stopped playing religious politics and moved into the real world.

* * *

Politics and religion. Marco looked at the assembled people in the chapel. They were a cross section of the powers of Venice, not "wedding-guests" in the normal sense of the term. Everyone who was anyone was there. The Doge had graced the occasion with his elderly presence. Ricardo Brunelli and his legendarily beautiful sister Lucrezia were there too. The head of the Ventuccio--who looked at Marco as if he'd never seen him before. Other Case Vecchie he'd really never seen before, making their appearance, coming to examine the Valdosta.

And plenty of non-Venetian folk, too:

The peacocky condottiere Aldo Frescata. The head of the Milanese "trade delegation," Francesco Aleri. Marco looked him over very, very carefully. Yes. He was the man they'd seen at the mouth of the alleyway. The man Maria said had taken her prisoner, who was in cahoots with the Casa Dandelo. Who was probably the director of the Montagnard spies and assassins. Maybe even the man who'd had Mama killed. They greeted each other with urbane politeness and every appearance of disinterest. It left him feeling a bit sick and unconsciously putting his hand onto the hilt of his rapier.

Petro Dorma was making sure that the whole of the power of Venice--of the entire region--saw Marco, knew that he had the Doge's blessing, and also that he had passed this test of faith. The Servants of the Holy Trinity, too, were glorying in this display of power. A nun and several gray-clad monks were doing the slow rounds, sprinkling holy water, chanting psalms. The air was heavy with holy incense. Bishop Capuletti, resplendent in his robes, there to conduct the wedding ceremony later, looked faintly put-out.

Then the bells began their solemn tolling. And the chapel was hushed. In the front of the chapel the abbot had the chalice, the bread, sword and bible arrayed. Obedient to the nudge from Petro, Marco walked forward. The monks began their chanting plainsong. Both fear and misery suddenly knotted his stomach. By the poisonous look that the abbot had given him, he clearly thought Marco ought to fail. And even if he didn't . . . he was going to be married to Angelina. He should make best of it.

Oh Kat--

If he even began to know where to find her . . . He'd spent the morning in futile wandering. Asking around. Being treated with Case Vecchie respect. He'd spotted Harrow in the distance, but even attempting to reach him to ask him had failed.

Too late now. He bit his lip and walked up and knelt before the altar.

* * *

Petro Dorma breathed a sigh of relief. He was fond of Angelina. But he was no fool. She was trouble. The last thing he'd ever expected was for her to catch someone who would be of value to Dorma. A nobleman short of money, perhaps. Almost certainly someone who would be a liability to Dorma--like Caesare Aldanto. Marco Valdosta was an innocent, and in some ways Petro felt almost guilty about catching him this way. But he had to look after Angelina. The boy had no idea just how much the name "Valdosta" counted for among the older Case Vecchie.

And among the populace, perhaps even more so. The Valdosta Family was old. True, Marco's father had been a wild young man, who married an out-of-town Ferrarese woman too involved in politics for her own good. But Luciano, the paternal grandfather, had been enormously popular. And the Dell'este connection . . .

The Old Fox might be in trouble right now, with Venice, Rome, and Milan all wanting his steel works. But he was a cunning old man. Ferrara might just hold its own. The Republic's Council of Ten, as Petro had reason to know, were warming again towards their one-time ally. Alliances changed. And the Old Fox knew that Dorma's shipyards needed good steel. And the Dell'este could use an accommodation with the Republic to ship to the east again. If Ferrara survived the gathering condottieri and internal factions, well, then Marco would be rich and powerful. Even if the boy were not old Case Vecchie, Dorma would have welcomed the alliance. Petro just hoped Angelina wouldn't drive Marco mad with indiscreet, expensive-to-hush affairs.

Petro sighed again. His duty as her brother would be to help out. He settled back in the pew and watched the ceremony. Unlike Marco, he had no qualms about the test of faith. The boy's goodness was patently obvious. He'd bet the lad had not a hint of a stain on his soul. Unlike himself. When it was over he got up and went to collect Angelina.

To his relief and amazement, she was ready.

* * *

Marco knew his normally excellent memory was . . . having trouble. He was . . . married? Standing accepting congratulations from the Powers-that-be . . . from Lucrezia Brunelli herself. "My, but Angelina caught herself a handsome one," cooed the legendary beauty, taking his hands in hers. She tickled his palm with one of her fingers. "You look . . . almost familiar. Have I met you before?"

Marco swallowed. Not all the lessons in etiquette had taught him how to deal with this. Yeah, I met you on the back stairs of Casa Brunelli, with you in a fury because you'd failed to seduce Senor Lopez. . . .

Was not the right thing to say. "No, m'lady."

She laughed. "Come now, Marco! We're going to be . . . friends, aren't we? Call me Lucrezia." Then she continued--in an entirely different tone. "Well, I wish you a happy married life. You and dear Angelina."

Bishop Capuletti, who had just approached them, looked like he might consider making that a very short life, if he had the opportunity.

PART VI June, 1538 A.D. =================================

Chapter 70 ==========

It was about a month after the wedding before Maria finally got a chance to see Kat.

The Arsenal was working flat out. It was always like that, anyway, this time of year. The convoy for the Golden Horn would leave in a week and the last-minute outfitting was still going on. Now, with a war looming, there was additional work getting the navy's galleys ready.

A couple of cousins waved to Maria as she rowed in with the load of brass nails from Seino's. "Maria, we need a piece of trompe l'oiel work for the admiral's cabin fetched from the Botega Giorgione," said the foreman, when she'd off-loaded. He pulled a sour face. "The admiral sent it back because of the cherubs. So they've held it back to the last minute. They're not punishing Admiral Niccolo. They're punishing us. But do you think they can see that?"

Great. That meant into town. Again. Well, she'd see if she could fit a trip to Giaccomo's into her rounds. They said trade was tight in Venice lately, because of the political situation, and you could see signs of it. But not right now. She felt she was being run off her feet, or more like rowed off her shoulders. "Consider it done, Paulo."

He patted her shoulder. "We trust you, Garavelli."

Yeah. They trusted her. The boatyard work was reliable, but for real money she still relied on Giaccomo. And the trouble with the squeeze on trade on the Po, the Vinland trade, and Genoa trying to muscle Venice . . . everyone was poorer and everything was more expensive. Which didn't worry those who had a lot coming in.

The trouble was--since she'd been living with Caesare, she'd gotten used to those little luxuries, like sleeping warm and dry. But they seemed so short of money, especially with Marco not putting in anymore. Caesare seemed really tight.

She was in a brown study about it as she sculled along to Giaccomo's. It took her a good moment to realize the "Psst!" from the gondola resting against the poles was addressed at her. It was Kat. She looked drawn and miserable.

"Been lookin' for you for days," said Maria.

"I went to the mainland," Kat replied dully. "We still own a small farm there. It's mortgaged to the hilt, so we can't sell it. And then Giuseppe didn't give me your note until Madelena decided it might stop me . . ."

"Crying into your breakfast," finished Maria. Kat didn't look like she'd eaten or slept much in the last ten days.

Kat nodded.

Maria snorted. "She must have been pretty desperate."

Kat shrugged. "She always told me men were like that. I didn't believe her."

There was a time for sympathy. There was also a time for no mercy. This, decided Maria, was the latter. "Like what?"

"False!" spat Kat. "Cheating, lying, and false. Making up to . . . becoming engaged to someone when they say they're not even involved with anyone. Not even seeing anyone."

Maria shook her head. "I don't know what maggot you've got in your head. The only other woman young Marco has 'seen' in the last three months is me. Unless you are talking about women he passed in the street! And he hasn't 'made up' to me. That's for damned sure."

"So how come he suddenly married Angelina Dorma?" demanded Kat savagely. "Just suddenly, huh?"

Maria shrugged. "Because she's more than three months pregnant."

Kat stood there gawping like a carp, abruptly out of water. Eventually she managed a small "oh."

"Yes. 'Oh.' Marco is so 'good' it almost shines out of him. He's done this because he felt it was the right thing to do. I wanted you to help me to talk him out of it. That's why I tried so hard to get hold of you. He doesn't love her, and never did. He had a 'she's a gorgeous Case Vecchie girl' crush on her. She didn't even know he was Case Vecchie. She's a tramp. But . . . well, it's too late now."

"Are you sure . . . about it all . . . about the baby?"

Maria nodded. "He's a terrible liar. He might lie to save someone else pain, but not himself. And he told me straight out. I'm sorry, Kat."

Now it was time for comforting. Maria hitched the gondola, and climbed over and held Kat for some time. The chiming of bells suddenly started Maria back into a realization of her duties.

"Hell. I've got to move. I'm supposed to have that picture back there for them as soon as possible! Look, you must go and see Benito. Talk to him. Confirm what I said. You can find him outside Ventuccio's just after lunch. I've got to go."

* * *

Lunchtime for runners saw Benito draped in his usual spot over the lower railing of the Ventuccio stairs, absorbing lunch and sunlight at the same time. He was blind and deaf to the traffic into Ventuccio behind him, intent as he was on his study of the canal below, until an elegantly-booted foot nudged his leg.

"Hey, kid," drawled a smooth voice, rich with amusement. "How's the trade?"

Benito looked up sharply from his afternoon perusal of the traffic and stared, his mouth full of bread. He knew that voice!

Wiry and thin, dark hair falling in a mass of curls to below his shoulders, Mercutio Laivetti leaned elegantly on the walkway rail beside him, grinning, looking very like a younger, darker, shorter version of Caesare Aldanto. Benito took in the slightly exotic cut of his clothing, the well-worn hilt of his rapier, the sun-darkened state of his complexion at a glance, before bursting out with his reply.

"Mercutio!" he exclaimed, scrabbling to his feet, and throwing his arms around the older boy--boy still, for Mercutio was only a year or two older than his brother, Marco. "Where've you been? I was thinkin' the Dandelos got you!"

Mercutio laughed and ruffled Benito's hair, but did not attempt to extract himself from the younger boy's embrace. "Had to make a trip to the East, kid--for my health." Benito let him go and backed up a step, looking up at him in perplexity. Mercutio tapped Benito's nose with a playful fingertip. "Not to make a story out of it, laddie, but my dear father turned me in to the Schiopettieri. Hopped a ship one step ahead of 'em, and worked my way to Turkey and back. Didn't have much time for goodbyes."

Benito grinned in delight. "Truth."

Mercutio turned his expression to one of unwonted seriousness, and placed his hand solemnly on his satin-covered chest in the general vicinity of his heart. "Truth." Then he dropped the pose, put his arm around Benito's shoulders, and returned the boy's embrace. "So what you been up to, kid? Still roofwalking?"

Benito grinned. "Some. Mostly been running. Do an odd job for Claudia and Valentina, for--'nother fellow. Out-of-towner. Landsman but a good fellow. Some for a canaler too, but that's been a special--"

He broke off, not wanting to talk about Maria to Mercutio, for some odd reason. He finished a bit lamely: "I've been helping, like. Mostly running for Ventuccio these days."

"Ventuccio?" Mercutio pursed his lips in surprise. The sun struck red lights from his hair, green sparks from his hazel eyes. "Come up in the world, have we?"

Benito flushed with pleasure. "Hey, ain't no big thing. And it's mostly on account of that fellow, the one I do a bit of odd work for. He got me the job. I been staying with him."

Mercutio grew silent, a silence punctuated by the distant clamor of voices on the canal below, the splashing of poles, the regular spat of wavelets on Ventuccio foundations. "Benito--" Mercutio's expression darkened, and his grip on Benito's shoulders tightened. "Benito, this feller--he isn't messing with you, is he?"

Benito's open-mouthed shock seemed to reassure the older boy, even before he spluttered out his reply. "Him? Hell no, not in a million years! He likes girls. Got him one, too. 'Member Maria Garavelli?"

Mercutio's eyebrows rose, and his tense expression relaxed. "Milady Hellcat herself? An out-of-town landsman? Lord and Saints, I don't know whether to congratulate the man, or pity him! Who is this paragon?"

"Name of Aldanto," Benito replied. "Caesare Aldanto."

"That's not a name I know." The questions in Mercutio's eyes gave Benito momentary qualms, and he belatedly began to pick his words with care.

"Aristo, Capuletti bastard, half German," Benito said, sticking to the "official" story. "They pay him to keep himself quiet and do a job or two for 'em."

"To not make an embarrassment of himself, and to do what Milord Capuletti doesn't want to dirty his fingers with, hmm?" Mercutio mused. "I can see where a smart kid like you could be useful to him. Is he treating you all right?"

Benito nodded vigorously. "As good as you. 'Cept he tries to keep me outa trouble."

Mercutio laughed. "Then I've got no quarrel with him. And how are my old pair of nemeses, Miladies Valentina and Claudia?"

Benito hid another grin. Claudia did not approve of Mercutio Laivetti, and Valentina approved of him even less. She considered him far too reckless, far too careless; which, to Benito, seemed rather a case of pot calling kettle. She hadn't liked it when Benito had taken to hanging around with the older boy--she'd liked it even less when Mercutio had included him in on some of his escapades.

But Mercutio was something special--a kind of substitute brother; while Benito's brother was out of reach in the Jesolo, he'd given Benito someone to tag after, look up to, try to imitate. He'd initiated Benito into the no-longer-quite-so-mysterious ways of Girls--or rather, Women--just prior to his disappearance. And he'd been something of a protector when there was trouble and Claudia wasn't around.

Truth to be told, Mercutio was a great deal that Marco was not. He took risks Marco would not even have thought of, and took them laughingly. Marco was so serious--and Benito grew tired of seriousness, now and again.

It was Mercutio's easy, careless good humor that attracted Benito the most. Mercutio could always find something to laugh at, even when the job went wrong. Mostly, though, nothing went wrong in Mercutio's hands, and he did everything with a flair and style that Benito could only envy.

"Claudia's okay--but ye'll never guess who Valentina's playin' footsie with," Benito replied, smirking.

"Ricardo Brunelli?" Mercutio laughed.

"Less likely'n that."

"Less likely--the only man less likely would be a Schiopettieri--" He stopped dead at Benito's widening grin. "You can't be serious!"

"Dead serious."

"Dip me in batter and call me fried fish! If Valentina's a-bedding with a Schiopettieri, can Judgment Day be far behind?" Mercutio's eyes were wide and gleeful. "I can see I've been missing far more than I dreamed!" He let Benito go, and regarded him with a lifted eyebrow and a grin that practically sparkled. "I can see that getting caught up is going to cost me at least the price of a dinner. So tell me, my young wage earner--when do your employers release you for the day?"

Chapter 71 ==========

The girl approaching the bench of Ventuccio runners was an enigma. She was definitely money. Her hair and clothes said that. If she hadn't been here, in the working part of the Ventuccio warehouse, Benito would have said she was Case Vecchie. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Benito chewed his thumbnail and wondered what brought her to Ventuccio.

She walked up to Ambrosino Ventuccio's desk like she owned him, the desk, and all of Ventuccio, and didn't need to flaunt the fact. The saturnine Ventuccio cousin sat up sharp when he saw her, and put what he was doing aside. She spoke quietly to him for a moment, too quietly for Benito to hear what she was saying, although he strained his ears unashamedly. But then she turned away from Ambrosino towards the bench and crooked her finger, beckoning. Beckoning Benito.

He jumped up and bounced over to her. Ambrosino Ventuccio looked him up and down, speculation in his no-color eyes, then cleared his throat. "Milady Montescue needs a runner--for something special," he said, slowly. "She wants somebody as knows where Marco Felluci went. I told her that he's not here any more, that he got proper leave to go, so he's not in any trouble with us. Then she wanted to speak to you, about him."

"Yes, milady," Benito said quickly. "Milady, I--" He gulped. He recognized the hairdo now. This was the woman who had brought Maria home. She smiled at him. His mouth must have fallen open in response. Only one person had that wide a smile . . . And standing as she was, only he could see her put a finger to her lips.

Digesting this one was going to take more than a few seconds. He wasn't quite sure what to say about Marco, and looked at Ambrosino for some clue. It was no secret--at least, he'd not been told it was--that Marco Valdosta was now openly under Dorma protection and sponsorship. But it wasn't something that too many people knew yet, either, outside the Case Vecchie circles. Ambrosino knew, but that didn't mean he wanted the other runners to know.

"Why don't you and the milady take a walk, kid," Ambrosino said. "Make this the last run of the day. The Montescue are still a great house."

Lord and Saints--That "Montescue?" The ones that owned the huge palace and shipyard down on the landward side of Cannaregio? It wasn't in the best of repair maybe, but still. They were Case Vecchie. Case Vecchie longi!

"--and it can't hurt to tell her what she wants to know."

"Yes, milord." Benito replied faintly. "Milady?"

She led him out, into the late-afternoon bustle and clamor on the shadowed walkway, maintaining a strained and complete silence. They moved with the flow of the crowd all the way down to the bridge, without her saying a word.

Finally, she stopped in the little alcove where the bridge met the walkway, a nook built in the side of the building so that people with long burdens to maneuver off the bridge onto the walkway could do so. She finally faced him there, and cleared her throat awkwardly. "Maria said I must talk to you."

Benito shook his head, still unbelieving. "Kat . . . Montescue?"

She grimaced. "Katerina Montescue, when I'm wearing these clothes. Kat the Spook when I'm . . . like you know me."

Benito swallowed. "But why? How . . ."

She shrugged. "Some things family have to do. And the Montescue are . . . few. There is nobody else. And I grew up playing around the boatyard. Playing in the boats. My mama wasn't Case Vecchie. The Negri aren't even curti. They're new money. Grandpapa Negri still rowed his own boat. I think Mama encouraged me to be a tomboy because . . . because it upset the Montescue cousins." She pulled a rueful face. "Back when there were some."

That left an awkward silence. "Um. Seeing as old Ambrosino said I could take off now . . . shall we go and have a glass of wine. Er. I gotta explain to you . . . 'Marco Felluci' is really . . ."

"Marco Valdosta," said Katerina sadly. "Come on. You're right. I could use a whole bottle of grappa, never mind a glass of wine." She pulled a wry face. "Except I don't like it. Somewhere quiet, Benito. I'm sticking the Montescue name out into public view enough just doing this. Maria said it was important. So important she posted a note under our water-door. Her writing's not great." That produced an almost-smile. "It took Giuseppe until this morning to give it to me. He thought he was protecting me. Madelena had a fight with him about it and made him come and deliver it."

Benito didn't know who these people were. But he knew a private place, close enough. He nodded. "Follow me." He led off to a little wine-cellar a hundred yards off. Inside it was dark and smoky, and still further privacy was offered by little cubicles. The sound was oddly damped within. "Traders use this place for negotiations. The partitions are double walled and filled with wool."

Kat and he sat down and the padrone wordlessly brought them a carafe of wine and a bowl of anchovy-stuffed olives. "Supposed to make you thirsty," said Benito, cheerfully taking three. "Now . . . if you already know that Marco is Marco Valdosta, what else can I tell you?"

Kat chewed her lip. "I . . . sent him a very angry letter, when I found out he was getting married to Angelina Dorma. I thought, I, I, well, he, I mean, er . . ."

Benito had to help out. There was some fun in seeing Kat tongue-tied, but he felt sorry for her anyway. And it was too late now, even if she was Katerina Montescue and not Kat "Trouble" the Spook. "Was two-timing you?"

"Yes," she said, her voice hardly audible. "Maria--I saw her early this morning--said it absolutely wasn't like that. She said I had to talk to you. Even if it was too late now. It's taken me all day to screw up the courage to walk into Ventuccio and ask for you."

Benito took a deep breath. He didn't really know how to handle this. But honesty to his brother seemed only fair, especially as Maria had already muddied the waters. Women! They made things complicated.

"Marco wasn't seeing Angelina when he was seeing you. He . . . well, never mind, but I promise, word of honor, swear to God, he never even saw her face in the last three months. Not until he moved into Dorma."

"I know," said Kat, dully. "And he's married now. Anyway it would never have worked. He's Valdosta. I'm Montescue. Our Families are enemies to the death. And I suppose it was the honorable thing for him to do, even if they had split up. He had to marry her. She was carrying his baby."

Benito choked on his wine. He spluttered.

"What!?"

* * *

Kat looked around anxiously. No one appeared to be staring at a red-faced Katerina Montescue and a tousle-haired teenager who was still gawping like a fish out of water. Marco . . . Marco had always been rather protective of Benito. Kat couldn't see why, because she'd bet his co-worker knew all about where babies came from when he was still in his own cradle. Still, it was par for the course. Very like Marco. She'd bet that Dorma bitch had seduced him. Her hands crooked into claws.

Benito finally got control of his larynx. "Who told you that?"

"Maria. Marco told her."

Benito shook his head. "Marco is the ultimate prize idiot. He needs a minder."

"Accidents happen," said Kat, stiffly.

Benito snorted. "Not unless Marco is the male equivalent of the Virgin Mary. And I've known him all my life. He's only half a saint. The other half is pure idiot, I promise."

He seemed so absolutely certain. "So who is the father then?" Kat demanded.

Benito looked at her, then away; then shook his head. "Let's just say Marco is paying his debts."

She had to know. "Benito, I'm not joking. If I have to spend the whole of the Casa Montescue's strongbox on a truth-spell, I'll get that answer. There isn't much in the strong box--but we can borrow." And some things are more important than money.

Benito shrugged. "It's too late, Kat. I know Marco. It is a question of honor. He's made his decision. He'll live by it."

Kat sighed. She should have trusted her heart and gone and talked him out of it. "He made it after he got that stupid letter from me." Well, marriages could be annulled. It wasn't easy, but once she had the real father . . . "I need to know who the father is, Benito. I'll find out. Every Strega scryer in this town relies on us. So you might as well tell me."

Benito shook his head. "Who did Marco tell that he was the father? There's your answer. And it is no help to you, Kat."

Marco told Maria. . . . "Caesare?" she asked, weakly.

Benito nodded. "After Marco's silly love poems made Caesare know the Case Vecchie girl had the hots for him, he made a move."

She'd even seen them together, she now realized. At that ridotto--true, Angelina had been masked, but the hair was recognizable. "Maria?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Doesn't know. I mean, she was after Caesare about him having another woman. But she doesn't know who, or even for sure. Hey--you leave her out of this, Kat! Look, there is no way the Dorma would have taken Aldanto. He's an ex-Montagnard. Forget about Marco. All you can do is wreck his life, and wreck Maria's. I know my brother. He won't back out. I'm sorry . . ."

Kat's head was whirling. She put it in her hands.

"Have some wine," said Benito gently, pushing the glass to her.

She took the wine. The harsh ruby liquid slopped a little. "You're his brother!?" There was a small sameness about the mouth, and in mannerisms . . .

Benito nodded. "I don't think we have the same father," he said wryly. "But yes, I'm Marco's brother. And believe me, Kat. Best thing you can do is leave him to get on with life with Angelina Dorma."

"Your name is Valdosta?"

Benito nodded. "Benito Valdosta. But I don't advertise it. After Mama was killed we went into hiding. Marco took off into the Jesolo. I lived in an attic and was a sneak thief. Then someone tried to kill Marco, about a year ago. Assassin. Professional. So I took him to Caesare."

"Someone tried to kill him?"

"Yes. Marco kind of assumed it was someone from the Council of Ten. But later we decided maybe it was the Montagnards."

Kat closed her eyes. "Dear God!" That was Grandpapa!

"He didn't even get hurt," said Benito reassuringly, but she wasn't listening anymore. She stared into nothing for a moment. Then she stood up.

"Don't ever tell anyone your name," she said harshly. "Never. Not anyone. Or go to Dorma for protection. And whatever you do, don't tell Aldanto." And she walked away.

* * *

Giaccomo was watching them out the corner of his eye, so Benito was doing his damnedest to act virtuous.

"--I can't believe it," Mercutio said, leaning back in his chair against the wall, and sipping at his brandy, his eyes alight with laughter. Jeppo cleared away their plates, with an odd look at Benito, but didn't say anything. Benito concentrated on being very well behaved. This was Giaccomo's after all, and if he did anything, Maria would hear about it. He wasn't even drinking brandy, though Mercutio had offered it, he was sticking to wine. Watered wine. He'd have a halo at this rate.

Outside Giaccomo's open door there were canalers lounging on his porch, mugs and glasses in hand, enjoying the balmy evening. He and Mercutio had the taproom pretty much to themselves.

"I just can't believe it'" Mercutio repeated, chuckling. "I leave this town, and the very next day all hell breaks loose! And me not here to help it along!" He shook his head mockingly. "I can see I've got a lot of lost time to make up--"

Suddenly he leaned forward, and his tone grew conspiratorial. "That's where you come in, kid. If you want in. Because I need a lookout and a housebreaker for a little piece of work."

Benito brightened. "'Course I want in!" He replied softly. "What'd you take me for? What's the action?"

Mercutio's eyes flamed with glee. "Who's the richest, dumbest man in this city?"

Benito snorted. "No contest. The Doge."

"And what does he love above power, wealth, women--everything?"

"His clockwork toys," Benito supplied.

"Now--what would he do, do you think, if he'd gone and built a wonderful toy just to send to Rome as a kind of present for the Grand Metropolitan--and he'd sent it to the jeweler to get all gilded and prettied up, and get sparklies put on it--and somebody--borrowed it? And told him he'd get it back only if he left a great deal of money in a particular place--and didn't tell anyone about it. And told him if he did bring in the Schiopettieri, he'd get his beautiful clockwork toy back in a million pieces?" Mercutio settled back in his chair with a smile of smug satisfaction.

"He's just dumb enough to do it," Benito acknowledged, answering Mercutio's smile with one of his own. "When and where?"

"Tonight, if you're game. Jeweler just opposite the bridge."

"Schiopettieri?" Benito asked.

"Got a distractor. Gave Jewel Destre a Turkish-made coat like this'n when he drooled over it. He thought I was groveling." Mercutio chuckled. "Then this afternoon I sent a couple messages to him and Giancarlo Polo concerning the coat and Jewel's manhood. Send one more and I'll guarantee they'll play knife-talk on the bridge tonight."

Benito chuckled evilly. "An' if anybody sees anythin', all they'll notice is the coat. So if anybody comes lookin' for a thief--they go for Jewel. Si. What is this thing of the Doge's anyway? A timepiece?"

Mercutio snickered. "I heard it's a clockwork whale he put together for his bath."

Benito snickered at the notion of a grown man playing with bath toys. "Let's do it," he said.

Chapter 72 ==========

There were more ways in to any building than by the door, and Benito knew most of them. He and Mercutio began their operation with him going over the roof and down an air-shaft. The air-shaft was very narrow. A year ago, Benito would have slid down it easily. Today--even though Benito didn't have an ounce of fat on him, he was already showing the stocky and muscular physique of his presumed father, Carlo Sforza. It was a tight fit.

But the air-shaft gave access to a window that was never locked. The window gave on a storeroom holding cleaning supplies, and the storeroom was shared by both the jeweler in question and his neighbor, a perfumer.

Benito opened the outer door to Mercutio, just as all hell broke loose on the bridge.

Mercutio flitted in, Benito out. Crouched in the shadows by the door he kept eyes and ears peeled for the approach of anyone. Innocents could make as much trouble as Schiopettieri if they noticed the boy in the shadows, or that the door was cracked open.

Across the canal on the bridge, torches were flaring, waving wildly; there was clamor of young male voices, shouting, cursing. A girl's scream cut across the babble like a knife through cheese--a scream of outrage and anger, not panic, and the hoarse croak of a young male in pain followed it.

And Benito saw, weaving through the walkways and heading up the stairs to a bridge, a string of bobbing lights moving at the speed of a man doing a fast trot.

Schiopettieri.

"Mercutio!" he whispered. A slim shadow flitted out the door, shutting it with agonizing care to avoid the clicking of the latch, a sound that would carry, even with the riot going on across the water. A bundle under Mercutio's arm told Benito everything he needed to know.

He grinned, as Mercutio took off at a trot, heading away from the Rialto bridge. Benito lagged a bit; his job to guard Mercutio's backtrail, delay any Schiopettieri.

Perfect, he thought with exultation. Worked this 'un timed as perfect as any of the Doge's contraptions--

And that was when everything fell apart.

People were looking out of windows, coming out of compartments with walkway entrances, moving toward the bridge, attracted to the ruckus like rats attracted to food. He and Mercutio had counted on that, too--it would cover their trail--

An old man, looking angry, popped out of a shop door in his nightshirt, halfway between Mercutio and the bridge. He was holding something down by his side; Benito didn't even think about what it might be, just noted his presence and his anger, and planned to avoid him. He looked like he'd been disturbed and wasn't happy about it--he probably had a cudgel, and he'd take out his pique on anyone jostling him. A lantern carried by someone hurrying toward the fight flared up and caught the gaudy patchwork of the Turkish coat Mercutio wore.

And the man let out an angry yell.

"You punk bastard!" he screamed, raising his hand. "Break my windows, will you! I'll give you 'protection'--"

Too late, Benito saw what the man held was a matchlock arquebus. Too late he yelled at Mercutio to duck.

Too late, as the arquebus went off with a roar, right in Mercutio's astonished face. His head exploded, blood fountaining as he fell.

Benito screamed, his cry lost in the screams coming from the bridge, the screams of those around the madman and his victim. "Mercutio!" he shrieked, and tried to push his way toward his friend, past people running away from the carnage. But something seized on him from behind, and when he struggled, hit him once, scientifically, behind the right ear, sending him into darkness.

* * *

He woke with an awful headache, and looked up into the eyes of the eagle. When his head stopped whirling quite so much he realized that it was the man with the solid line of eyebrow . . . who had seen him and Kat hide from the Schiopettieri and return to retrieve that package. Who had chased them down the alley outside Zianetti's. Senor Lopez. He was wearing a simple monk's habit. Benito pulled away in fear.

"Lie still!" snapped the man. There was such command in the voice that Benito did. Lopez's hands explored his scalp. Gently. "Well, your skull appears intact. Now lie still. You were noticed. The Schiopettieri are casting around for you. Your burned-face rescuer couldn't stick about." He pulled a blanket over Benito. Moments later the voice of the law could be heard.

" . . . a boy. Rumor has it he lives somewhere in this area of the city. Dark curly hair."

Then the voice of Lopez. "There are thousands of boys in Venice with dark curly hair. Doubtless I have this one hidden under a blanket in my cubicle." This was said in an absolutely level voice.

Respect in the voice. " . . . just wondered if you'd seen him, Father Lopez."

"I did. When I see him again, I will tell him you are looking for him," said Lopez.

Benito lay still, trapped between the terror of the Schiopettieri and horror about Mercutio's death.

A minute later, Lopez returned. "Schiopettieri are looking for you. Now. Explain to me what happened. Your burned-faced friend simply deposited you at my door and left."

Benito sat up, frightened. "I don't know what you're talking about. Mercutio, my friend . . ."

"With the Turkish waistcoat? The Schiopettieri say he is dead. Killed in the fracas." Lopez took a deep breath. "I am here to save a city, not to look after little sneak thieves. You are a piece in this puzzle, Benito Valdosta. You and your brother Marco and Katerina Montescue."

Benito started in fear. "How did you know--" He shrank back a little. It was always said that the Montagnards had killed their mother, had hunted Marco. Benito had always believed that himself. But what if . . . it had been the Metropolitans . . . even possibly this man, or agents of the Council of Ten. Those shadowy agents no one knew.

And Mercutio was dead. His mind just kept coming back to it. Dead . . . What was it that Valentina had said . . . He'll end up dead, and in two days Venice will have forgotten even his name.

Mercutio was dead. Dead. The whole of his face blown off. Dead.

Lopez shook him. Benito swung a fist at the Spaniard. "He's dead! Mercutio is dead!"

Lopez sighed. "Go on. Get out of here. You have that young fool's death on your mind. Perhaps we can talk when you are no longer a boy."

* * *

As he staggered out onto the street, Benito was vaguely aware that there was something very wrong about that scary priest. Ricardo Brunelli's guest, at one time, now living in the Ghetto. A Legate of the Grand Metropolitan . . . being attired as a monk and manning a confession booth in Dorsoduro . . . waiting for some great happening. But his mind was too full of the death of Mercutio.

He charged down the cobbles to Aldanto's, wiping hot, angry eyes with his fists. He only slowed when he got to their house, because he had to talk to the gate-guard, and he wouldn't be crying in front of anyone, not if he died for it. So he composed himself--holding his sorrow and his rage under tightest of masks; opened the door with his key--

Started to. The door opened at the first rattle of key in lock, and he found himself looking at Aldanto himself.

He just stared, frozen.

"You're late," Aldanto had said, grabbing his arm and hauling him inside. "You should have been back--"

"Let me go!" Benito snarled, voice crackling again, pulling his arm away so fast his shirt sleeve nearly tore.

Aldanto gave him a startled look, then a measured one. He let go of Benito's arm and turned back to the door, careful to throw all the locks--and only then turned back to Benito.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, neutrally.

He'd told himself, over and over, that he was not going to tell Aldanto what had happened.

But Caesare was a skillful interrogator; Benito couldn't resist the steady barrage of quiet questions, not when Aldanto was between him and the door. Syllable by tortured syllable, the handsome blond dragged the night's escapade out of him, as Benito stared at the floor, smoldering sullenly, determined not to break down a second time. He got to know every crack and cranny of the entryway floor before it was over.

Silence. Then, "I'm sorry," Aldanto said quietly. "I'm sorry about your friend."

Benito looked up. Aldanto's face was unreadable, but his eyes were murky with thought, memory, something. He looked past Benito for a moment.

"But you know very well," he said, noncommittally, "that was a damned fool stunt."

Benito snarled and made a dash for the stairs. Aldanto made no move to stop him. He tore up the stairs, stubbing his toes twice, getting up and resuming his run--got to Caesare's bedroom and through it, not caring if Maria was in the bed--to the roof-trap and out, slamming it behind him--

And out onto the roof, into the dark, the night, the sheltering night, where he huddled beside the chimney and cried and cried and cried. . . .

* * *

Dawn brought the return of sense, the return of thought.

Valentina was right, he thought bleakly. She told me and told me. Must have been a million times. She told me Mercutio was a fool. She told me he wouldn't see twenty. She was right. Him and his ideas--"gonna be rich and famous." So what's he come to? Blown away 'cause some ol' fool thinks he's Jewel. And ain't nobody going to remember him but me.

He crouched on his haunches, both arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth and shivering a little. Ain't nobody going to remember him but me. Could have been me. Could have been. Been coasting on my luck, just like Mercutio. Only one day the luck runs out . . .

He stared off across the roofs, to the steeples and turrets of the Accademia. Marco maybe got it right.

He sniffed, and rubbed his cold, tender nose on his sleeve. What have I done? What the hell good am I doing for him, or even for Caesare? The Dell'este has gone and made an heir to the house. And Marco . . . poor fish, doesn't even begin to know how to be sneaky. Just honest--and honest could wind up with him just as dead as Mama. There's gotta be somethin' I can do. There's got to be . . .

His thoughts went around and around like that for some time until he heard voices below, and saw Maria shutting the door beneath his perch, saw her hop into her gondola and row it away into a shiny patch of sun and past, into the shadows on the canal.

He knew Aldanto would be up.

He unwound himself and crept on hands and knees to the trapdoor; lifted it, and let himself down into the apartment.

"I wondered if you'd gone," said a voice behind him as he dropped.

He turned. Aldanto sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, eyes half-closed, but not at all sleepy, fishy-smelling breeze coming in the open window and ruffling his hair.

"No, Caesare," Benito replied uncertainly. "I've--been thinking."

He could feel Aldanto considering him from under those half-closed lids; weighing him.

"You've been thinking?"

"I'm a fool. Lucky, but--Mercutio was lucky for a while."

"And you saw what riding luck got him."

"Si."

"And what do you propose to do about this revelation?"

Benito couldn't stand looking at that expressionless face. He dropped his eyes to his own feet; bare, callused, dirty, and covered with little scratches. "Don't know, Caesare," he muttered. "Just--you need help, m'brother needs help--and I don't how--what to do. I just--want do it smart, that's all. I want to be able t' do things. An' if somebody decides to put a hole in me--"

He looked up again, his chin firming stubbornly, a kind of smoldering anger in the bottom of his stomach.

"--if somebody decides to put a hole in me, I don't want it to be for no damn reason!"

Aldanto licked his lips a trifle, his eyes no longer hooded. "You're asking my advice."

"Si," Benito said. "I'm asking. And I'll take it. I ain't going to be a fool any more."

"Dorma," Aldanto replied.

Benito wrinkled his nose doubtfully. "Milord? What's Dorma got to do--"

"Petro Dorma has been made aware of the fact that there are two Valdosta boys in Venice. It is only because of my effort and Marco's that he hasn't had his people out to bring you in regardless of your wishes in the matter." Was that a hint of smile? If so, it was gone before Benito had a chance to identify the expression. "We persuaded him that until you wanted the shelter of Dorma's patronage, it would be--a less than successful venture. He continues to inquire about you. He has a very strong sense of obligation--" It was a hint of a smile. "--has Milord Dorma. He's a powerful, influential man. Keeps quiet, but has a following. I wouldn't mind knowing what happens at Dorma. You have eyes that see things that your brother doesn't."

"But--Marco, he wants to be a doctor," Benito felt moved to protest. "I ain't smart, not that smart--what am I supposed to do?"

"What did your grandfather tell you to do? I know he sent you a note not long ago."

Benito remembered, as clearly as if he had Marco's perfect memory, the words of his granther's note. It is your duty to take care of Marco. He has no talent for lying, no ability to deceive. This is not altogether bad, as there should be one in every generation who understands and believes in Dell'este Honor. But those who believe in the Honor need those who understand the price of Honor to care for them.

"He told me to take care of Marco."

"Why you?" said Aldanto quietly.

"Because I'm not good--and the good ones need bad ones to watch out for 'em." That may not have been what the duke had said, but it was what he meant.

"Ferrara is being squeezed. The Dell'este have not a sure ally in the world. The old Duke is a canny old fox. But Marco could become the Head of the Dell'este in exile." Aldanto spoke intently, his blue eyes boring into Benito's. "What then?"

Benito thought about the duke; the clever, canny duke, who understood expediency--and Marco, who did not--and shivered.

Aldanto leaned back on his pillows a little. "So. You see."

Benito nodded, slowly.

"Then, young milord, I advise you to go to Petro Dorma. And I advise you to ask him to train you in the ways of business. And I further advise you to learn, Benito Valdosta. Apply yourself as devotedly as you did to learning to pick a lock."

"Si," Benito said, in a small humble voice. He turned, and started to go--then turned back for a moment. "Caesare--"

Aldanto simply raised one golden eyebrow.

"We're still in your debt. You call it in, any time--I pay it. Roofwalking too."

"I'll hold you to that," said Caesare, bleakly.

Benito nodded. And he picked his way carefully down the staircase, and out the door, into the dawn sunshine.

* * *

He sat on the doorstep of Dorma for a very long time before the doorkeeper opened the outer protective grate for the day. The doorkeeper was a withered old man who stared at him with a pride far more in keeping with a House Head than that of a doorkeeper.

"Away with you, boy," he grated, looking down his nose as Benito scrambled to his feet, and clasped his hands behind him. "We don't need idlers or beggars. If you're looking for work, present yourself at the kitchen."

"Pardon, sir," Benito interrupted, looking out of the corner of his eye at the huge pile that was Dorma, and feeling more than a little apprehensive at what he was getting himself into. "Your pardon--but--I've got a message. For Milord Dorma."

"Well?" The ancient drew himself up and sniffed disdainfully. But his disdain was short-lived.

"Caesare Aldanto sent me, sir. If it's convenient . . . I'm supposed to speak to Milord Petro. I'm--" He gulped, and watched the surprise flood the old man's face. "I'm Benito Valdosta. Marco's brother. I think Milord Petro wants to see me."

Chapter 73 ==========

"Who in the name of God is this Francesca?" demanded the Holy Roman Emperor. He held up the second of the two letters Count Von Stemitz had brought with him from Venice. The letter was quite a bit longer than the first, which consisted of a single page.

The count cleared his throat. Then, cleared it again. "Ah. Well, as it happens, Your Majesty, your nephew has taken up with a Venetian courtesan. For quite some time now. He's kept the liaison more or less secret from Abbot Sachs and his coterie. But Erik Hakkonsen quietly informed me of the situation early on."

"Hakkonsen allowed this to continue?" demanded the Emperor, his heavy brows so low that his dark blue eyes seemed a deep purple.

"Well . . . yes, Your Majesty." Again, Von Stemitz cleared his throat. "Actually, in an odd sort of way, I get the feeling Hakkonsen rather approves of the arrangement."

The Emperor's brows lifted. "I'll be damned," he grunted. "I didn't think the young Icelander was that smart. His father--God rot his soul--would have beaten me black and blue."

"It was a simpler world in those days, Your Majesty. If you'll permit me the liberty of saying so."

"Indeed it was," sighed Charles Fredrik. "Jagiellon's father was a brute, and the uncle he usurped the throne from was even worse. But they weren't as ambitious." He fanned his face with the sheaf of papers held in his left hand. "Not to mention that accursed Emeric of Hungary. Either he or Jagiellon would be bad enough. To have both of them coming to power within a year of each other . . ."

He sighed again and picked up the single sheet of paper which contained Manfred's letter to him. Then, hefted it a bit, as if he were weighing the one letter against the other.

"They say essentially the same thing. But this Francesca's so-called 'addendum' is ten times longer, twenty times more sophisticated, and lays out in fine detail all of the nuances Manfred missed."

"I thought Manfred's letter was quite thoughtful," said the count, rallying for the moment to the young prince's behalf.

The Emperor snorted. "For an eighteen-year-old boy who's never given any evidence in the past of thinking past the next tavern or whorehouse, the letter's a bloody miracle." He squinted at Francesca's letter. "Still--there's nothing in Manfred's letter we didn't know a year ago. Whereas this one . . ."

"She claims to be from the Aquitaine. I tend to believe the claim, even though I'm certain the name she uses is fraudulent."

"Oh, I don't doubt she's from the Aquitaine," mused the Emperor. "Nobody else in the world--not even Italians--has that subtle and convoluted way of looking at things." His eyes left the letter and drifted toward the narrow window. An arrow-slit, that window had been once. Probably half the arrows fired from it, over the centuries, had been aimed at Aquitainian besiegers.

"I'd be a lot happier if I knew exactly who she was."

The third man in the room coughed discreetly. The Emperor and Von Stemitz moved their eyes to gaze on him.

"Her real name is Marie-Francoise de Guemadeuc," said the priest. "You can be certain of it. We investigated quite thoroughly."

The count grimaced. "A bad business, that was. Even by the standards of the Aquitaine."

The Emperor's expression was a study in contradiction--as if he were both relieved and disturbed at the same time. "You are certain, Francis?" he demanded.

"Yes, Your Majesty." The priest nodded at the letter in the Emperor's hands. "My brothers in Venice have even more at stake in this matter than you. Their lives, in the end."

"True enough," admitted Charles Fredrik. His brows lowered again. "Which is perhaps the part about this that bothers me the most. You had given me no indication, prior to this moment, that your . . . 'brotherhood' was involved at all with my nephew."

Father Francis spread his hands. "And we are not, Your Majesty. Not directly, at least. But, you may recall, I did tell you--several times, in fact--that we had established a line of communication with you which was less circuitous than the letters I receive from Father Lopez through our brothers in the Aquitaine."

" 'Less circuitous!'" barked the Emperor. He jiggled the letter in his hand. "That's a delicate way of putting it!"

Father Francis did not seem abashed. "Well. Yes, it is. We have taken solemn vows, after all."

After a moment's worth of imperial glowering, Charles Fredrik's heavy chest began to heave with soft laughter. "I'll give you this much, Francis. You have a better wit than the damned Sots." The amusement passed. "Let's hope that extended to your wits also."

He laid the letter back on the table, planted his thick hands on the armrests of the chair, and levered himself to his feet. Then, almost marching, went to the window and gazed out. There was not much to see, beyond the lights of the sleeping city.

"I agree with this Francesca's assessment of the situation," the Emperor announced abruptly. "The troubles in Venice have been carefully orchestrated to leave the city helpless and at odds with itself--while Jagiellon has moved to precipitate a war in northern Italy. A war whose sole purpose is the destruction of Venice itself."

Von Stemitz had not actually read Francesca's letter. She had given it to him already sealed. "That seems a bit farfetched, Your Majesty, if you'll forgive me saying so. Why would anyone want to destroy Venice? The city is the key to the wealth of the East."

Before Charles Fredrik could answer, the count made a little waving motion with his hand, forestalling objections. "Oh, to be sure--Duke Visconti wishes Venice all the ill in the world. But he wants to control the city, not ruin it. And how could he do it, anyway? Venice is an island and its fleet is far more powerful than anything Milan and its allies could muster--" He broke off suddenly.

"Unless Emeric of Hungary comes onto the scene," finished the Emperor. "Which he surely would if it appeared that Venice was falling into ruin."

"But--" Von Stemitz was clearly groping, his face tight with confusion.

"Think," commanded the Emperor. He spread his arms wide. "But think on the largest scale, because that's how--I'm certain of it now--Jagiellon is thinking." He turned away from the window entirely. "At first glance, of course, Jagiellon would seem to be the least likely source of trouble in the Adriatic. The Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Poland is very far from Venice, and has no common border with it. No apparent source for mutual conflict." He shrugged heavily. "Not even the commercial rivalry which periodically agitates the Hungarians and the Genoese and the Greeks in Constantinople."

"Exactly. So why in the world--"

"Who is the great rival of Lithuania?" interrupted the Emperor.

Von Stemitz frowned. "We are, of course. The Holy Roman Empire."

"Precisely. And what will happen if Venice is destroyed? Who will fill the sudden power vacuum in northern Italy and the Adriatic? Not Milan!"

Von Stemitz stared at him. Then, slowly, the count's face began to clear. And seemed, as well, to grow slightly pale.

"Precisely," grunted Charles Fredrik. "Grand Duke Jagiellon's reputation for insensate brutality is well earned, Count. But I think that's as much of a maneuver as anything else he does. Don't be fooled by it. He is also a consummate manipulator; a schemer, quite unlike his father. A man--we'll call him that, for the moment--who would prefer to let others bleed themselves to death, if at all possible, while he marshals his forces elsewhere."

Von Stemitz spoke in a whisper. "If Venice . . . is destroyed, the Holy Roman Empire will have no choice. If you don't intervene--with direct military force--the Hungarians surely will. And--and--"

"And with Lithuania and the borderlands to deal with already, I cannot also afford to see a more powerful Kingdom of Hungary--especially not one which has a toehold in Italy. Especially not with a man on the throne like Emeric, who doesn't quite have Jagiellon's reputation--outside of Hungary, that is--but comes in a very close second."

"There'd be war between the Empire and Hungary!"

Charles Fredrik nodded. "For a certainty. With--for a certainty--Milan and Rome sucked into the vortex as well. All of north Italy. Genoa also, be sure of it--soon enough, the Greeks as well." He turned his head, staring out of the arrow slit again. "Within a year . . ." he mused. "Within a year, half of my army would be mired in north Italy. Leaving Jagiellon free to strike elsewhere."

"Where, do you think?" asked Father Francis.

The Emperor swiveled his head back and fixed his eyes on Eneko Lopez's companion. "I don't know," he said. "You'll find out for me."

Father Francis's head jerked a little. Then, slowly, a small smile came to his face and he lowered his head. The gesture was almost--not quite--a bow. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said softly.

The Emperor chuckled. "Not just yet, Francis. We still have to spike this plot of Jagiellon's in Venice. And you still have to get the agreement of the Grand Metropolitan in Rome before you can form a new order. What are you going to call it, by the way?"

Francis hesitated. "We haven't really decided, Your Majesty. Most of us lean toward the 'Society of Hypatia.' "

"Eneko Lopez also?"

"No, actually--he doesn't seem to like the name. He--"

"Smart man!" barked the Emperor. "Within a year, your enemies will be calling you 'the Shits.' What does he favor?"

"The Society of Chrysostom."

The Emperor stroked his thick beard. "Better. Better. Still . . . they'll shorten it to something like 'the Socks.' Then, within a week, to 'the smelly Socks.' Be certain of it." He paused. Then: "Call yourselves the Society of the Word," he stated. Firmly, even imperiously.

Francis seemed to bridle. The Emperor barked a little laugh. "Don't be stupid, Francis! Allow me the luxury of command in small things, if you would--since you do need my permission to operate in imperial territory. My cooperation, in fact, even if it is kept at a certain official distance."

Francis' stiff shoulders eased. "True, Your Majesty." A little crease appeared between his eyebrows. "But I don't see how calling ourselves--" The crease disappeared into a much deeper one. "Your Majesty! 'The Swords?' We are not a militant order."

The most powerful man in Europe simply stared at him. And, after a moment, the priest looked away.

* * *

When Antimo finished his report, the Duke of Ferrara rose from his chair and moved over to the blade-rack along the wall. There, for a moment, his eyes ranged admiringly over the blades before he selected one and took it down from its rack.

"Benito has made his decision, has he?" mused the Old Fox. He hefted the dagger in his hand, holding it with an expert grip. "The main gauche, Antimo. Not so glorious as the sword, of course. A plebeian sort of weapon." His left hand glided through a quick motion. "But, in the end, it's often the blade sinister which spills the enemy's guts on the field."

Dell'este replaced the dagger and turned back to Bartelozzi. "Show in Baron Trolliger now, if you would. I assume he's brought the rest of the money with him."

Antimo nodded. "Enough to hire all the condottieri we'll need." Smiling grimly: "Ferrara will seem like a veritable military giant, when the war erupts."

The Old Fox shook his head. "Don't fool yourself, Antimo. The great swords will remain in the hands of the Emperor and the Grand Duke and the King of Hungary. But for the needs of the moment, here in northern Italy?" Again, his left hand made that swift, expert motion. "Ferrara will be Charles Fredrik's main gauche."

PART VII August, 1538 A.D. ====================================

Chapter 74 ==========

When Manfred strode into Erik's chamber, the Icelander was struggling with a letter. Erik had met up with an Icelander pilgrim, and the chance to send a letter home was a rare one. Now he just had to choose his words with some care. There was always a chance the letter might not get home. There were things going on that he didn't want to tell the world about. Besides, there was Manfred's identity to be kept secret. He was tempted to write in runic, but that would convince any curious person this was full of secrets worth reading--or destroying if they could not read it.

"We need some air, Erik," said Manfred loudly.

Something about that tone stopped Erik from saying he had a letter to finish first. He put the letter carefully aside, the quill balanced across the inkpot.

They walked out. Full summer was coming and the smell rising off the canals was as unpleasant as the shimmering water was beautiful. Manfred picked a spot where they could lean against a wall in the shade. "Count Von Stemitz just came back from his visit to the Emperor. Who is now in Innsbruck, by the way."

Manfred snorted. "Yes--Innsbruck. He never leaves Mainz if he can help it! Which means . . ." Manfred glowered at nothing in particular--or the world in general. "Von Stemitz brought a reply for me from Charles Fredrik."

Manfred took a deep breath. "And he sent me this also."

It was a plain heavy gold ring, set with a polished bloodstone.

Erik raised an eyebrow. Plainly there was more to the ring than mere jewelry.

"Charles Fredrik is like the Doge," said Manfred. "He likes mechanical gadgets." He pressed the ring on the inside, under the stone, with a knife point. The bezels opened. And Manfred took the bloodstone out. He handed it to Erik. Upside down.