by Eric Flint
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-Fran?oise 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, Franci
s?" 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."