Shadow of the Lion hoa-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  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--