The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey

  The old proprietor was waiting for him—obviously as keen to get rid of this parcel of potential trouble as Marco was eager to get back to meet Maria, and get his part in this over with.

  He waited. And waited. It was getting brighter next to the bridge. More and more people were about.

  When she did finally arrive, Maria wore a scowl that would have frightened cream into unchurning itself back into butter. "Don't get on," she said. "We got trouble."

  Marco looked around, warily.

  "Tch." Maria clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Not here. Think I'd be stupid 'nough to bring trouble? Back in Venice. The Schiopettieri and the Capi di Contrada are searching all the small craft coming across from the east. Someone must have tipped them off."

  "What do we do?"

  Maria shrugged. "I go back to town. I've organized a lift across to the mainland for you. There's a pirogue heading for Mestre. You remember Tonio's cousin Alberto? His boat. He's down the glass warehouse at the end of the Fondamenta Serendella. You go there and slip onto his boat. Then in Mestre you cadge or buy a ride over to the west-side quays. You'll miss some time at work but Caesare has leverage with Ventuccio. I wouldn't come home with the parcel. See if you can get to Ricci's and deliver it to that Greek of Caesare's—Nicothedes. Now, I'm running behind schedule. I'd better get along or it'll look suspicious, and they might start wondering where I've been. They're probably going to search and harass me anyway. It'll keep 'em busy."

  And with a flick of the oar she was gone to face the waiting Schiopettieri.

  Marco got himself along to Alberto's scruffy pirogue. Two hours later he was near emptying his meager purse to get across the west quays. He was going to be very, very late for work. He was also very, very nervous.

  * * *

  Benito, hurrying along to Ricci's, literally ducking in one door and out the other, had his plans go awry too.

  He slipped the new hat that was Marco's pride and joy off his head as he got inside the door. This time of morning there shouldn't be many people around. The Marangona bell had only just started to ring over at the Arsenal.

  Except . . . the pasticceria was full.

  Full of Schiopettieri.

  Benito, hearing the door close behind him, felt sick right to the pit of his stomach. Then just before he bolted, he realized that his only "crime" was wearing his brother's hat. Personally, Benito had always felt the hat was ugly, but wearing it was still not a crime. Hat or no hat, the Schiopettieri weren't interested in him.

  In fact they were discussing something he'd love to have stayed to listen to. Venice was buzzing with rumors about "magical murders" and "demon killings." If he heard the horrified talk aright, there'd just been another. And this time it sounded as if someone had actually caught sight of whoever—or whatever—had committed the deed. No wonder the Schiopettieri were in having a drink so early.

  As Benito wormed his way across to the side door that would give him access to an alley with some easy-to-climb beams, he picked up snatches of the conversation.

  "—suckers like an octopus—"

  "—blood everywhere—"

  "—poor priest was shaking so much he could hardly speak—"

  And then he was out, heading upwards to the rooftops. Later he walked along to work as usual. Which was fine until one of the older Ventuccio came and asked him if he knew why Marco wasn't coming in.

  After that, it was torture. Waiting in worry and uncertainty always is. Where the hell was Marco?

  * * *

  Marco alighted from a barge-load of chickens at the Fondamenta Zattere ai Gesuati. To his relief, there were no watching Schiopettieri. Now it was just a short cut across the Accademia, take a traghetto across the Grand Canal, and off to Ricci's. He was already trying to think of a good excuse to use at Ventuccio when he realized he was being followed. Or thought he was, anyway, he wasn't sure. Someone big, in a black cloak.

  This was even more frightening than Schiopettieri. Marco paused and looked back surreptitiously. He couldn't see the big man in the black cloak any more. Maybe it had all been a figment of his imagination.

  Then again—maybe not. If he was being followed by an agent of the Montagnards, it would be someone good enough not to be easily spotted. The Montagnard and Metropolitan factions had plenty of skilled spies—and assassins. His mother had been a Montagnard spy herself, far more skilled than Marco at maneuvering in these murky waters. But that hadn't prevented them from killing her, had it? Had she, too, once been followed like this?

  His panic was rising rapidly. A Montagnard agent. One of his mother's killers, now following him.

  Marco rounded the corner into Calle Pompea and started running. The street was crowded at this time of day. Dodging between the pedestrians and the porters, the students heading for classes, and the barrows of vegetables, Marco made fearful time around the corner, doubling back toward the docks, and down into an alley.

  He looked back. And he ran smack into someone who was coming the other way. He dropped the precious parcel. The other person dropped a variety of things including a folding easel and at least a dozen brushes. As they both bent to retrieve their possessions they looked at each other . . . with mutual recognition.

  Rafael de Tomaso!

  He and Marco had struck a kindred note in each other from the first words they'd exchanged. Marco still remembered de Tomaso coming in to Mama's place, the first time, looking for plants for pigments. Rafael had been grinding and preparing his own paints already then. They'd struck up a conversation with the ease of two boys—unaware of the difference in politics or background. They'd met up again later, one evening at Barducci's and it was . . . once again an immediate encounter with a kindred spirit. It was as if the intervening years hadn't passed.

  "Marco!" Rafael smiled.

  "Rafael . . . can you hide me? Someone is after me. At least—I think so. Maybe."

  Rafael didn't hesitate. "Licia's—my lodging—it's only a door away. Will that do?"

  Marco looked around nervously and nodded. In a few moments he was upstairs in a dingy room long on artist's supplies and short on space or comfort. "What are they after you for?" asked Rafael curiously.

  Now that Marco felt relatively secure, his fears were ebbing. In fact, he was starting to feel embarrassed. There were a lot of big men in Venice, after all, plenty of them wearing black cloaks. He was beginning to think he'd just imagined the whole thing.

  "Well . . . I might have been wrong. Maybe there wasn't anybody. But if there was—" He held up the package clutched in his hand. "They'd want this parcel. I'm supposed to deliver it to Ricci's."

  Rafael smiled. "Better safe than sorry, what I say. I'm on my way across to Castello to paint a portrait. It's not much of a commission but every bit of money helps. I'll toss it in my paint-bag and deliver it for you. You can stay here in the meanwhile."

  Marco felt his muscles go slack with relief. "That would be fantastic."

  * * *

  The relief on Benito and Maria's faces when they saw him was almost worth missing a day's pay for. And Caesare was pleased with his parcel too. Benito and Maria did quite a lot of yelling at him, of course.

  Chapter 28

  Petro Dorma studied the body lying on the kitchen table. The two chirurgeons were still working on the pitifully mangled thing, but it was obvious to Dorma that the shopkeeper was as good as a corpse. The amount of blood spilling over the table onto the stone-flagged floor was enough in itself to doom him—leaving aside the ghastly trail of blood that led from the shop where the merchant had been attacked.

  Blood, and . . . other things. Horrid pieces of a half-dismembered human body. Whatever had done this had been as insensate in its violence as in the previous murders. This was now the fourth victim Dorma had examined—assuming that the street urchin killed the first night had been one of them, an assumption which Petro had made long since. All of them displayed the same characteristics. Bodies ripped apart, as if by some kind of huge animal,
not simply stabbed or bludgeoned in the manner of a human murderer.

  He turned away and walked out of the kitchen, taking care not to ruin his expensive shoes by stepping in the blood. Once in the room beyond, he paused and examined the area once again. He had done so already, but Dorma was meticulous by nature. That was one of the reasons his fellow senators had elected him to the Signori di Notte. The Lords of the Nightwatch who controlled the city's Schiopettieri were too powerful a group to be given into the hands of careless men. The more so if one of them, like Petro Dorma, was also a member of the Council of Ten—the shadowy semi-official body of the Senate which had almost unrestricted powers to investigate and suppress whatever they saw as threats to the security of the city.

  Petro Dorma had the reputation for being judicious as well as intelligent, and not given to factionalism or fanaticism of any kind—exactly the qualities which the oligarchy that controlled the Venetian Republic looked for in its most powerful officials. The Republic had now lasted for a millennium, maintaining its prosperity and independence in the face of many challenges, by being cautious and methodical. Venetian diplomats were famous the world over—notorious, perhaps—for being the most skilled at their trade. The challenges which had faced the city over that thousand years had been internal as well as external. Venice's secret police were every bit as expert as the city's diplomats.

  Petro Dorma never thought of himself as a "secret policeman," much less as the effective chief of the secret police. In truth, he never really thought of his status at all. He simply took it for granted. The male head of one of Venice's most prominent houses, a wealthy and highly respected merchant, very prominent in the Senate. And, also, the dominant member of the Lords of the Nightwatch and perhaps the most influential within the Council of Ten.

  So it was. Petro Dorma's position in Venetian society was as much a matter of fluid custom and tradition as it was of any official title. He did not care much about titles; did not even think of them very often. He was Petro Dorma, and . . . so it was.

  * * *

  The room was plain, unadorned. The narrow and cramped shop of a simple dealer in linens, nothing more. As with most small merchants in Venice, the shop was simply the front room of a residence. The kitchen adjoined directly; the bedrooms and living quarters were upstairs, accessible only by a narrow staircase leading from the back of the kitchen.

  Absolutely typical—and completely different from the locale of the previous murders. The first victim had been a very wealthy financier, slaughtered in his own bedroom on the upper floor of one of the city's premier mansions. The presumed second victim a street urchin, killed by the canalside. The third a poor prostitute, butchered in an alleyway where she plied her trade.

  That fact alone was enough to tell Dorma that he was dealing with no typical fiend. In his experience—considerable experience—homicidal maniacs were obsessive in the way they selected their victims. As obsessive as they were in the manner with which they murdered.

  This fiend, however, seemed not to care. Not, at least, with respect to the nature of his—or its—victims. And if the grotesquely brutal manner in which it killed the prey seemed obsessive, Dorma suspected that it was not. He suspected, more and more, that the fiend killed in this manner simply because it came naturally. Is a shark "obsessive" because it rends bodies into shreds with huge teeth? Or a lion with talons and fangs?

  Petro did not believe, any longer, that he was dealing with a human murderer. As skeptical as he normally was whenever he dealt with charges of "witchcraft"—charges with which he had as much experience as he did with mundane crimes—Dorma had become convinced, in this case, that he really was facing something supernatural.

  And that being true . . .

  His thoughts wandered, for a moment, to the still-unsolved mystery of what had happened to Father Maggiore, the Servant of the Holy Trinity who had been burned alive months earlier at the ceremony in the Imperial embassy. As it happened, Dorma had been present himself on that occasion, and had personally witnessed the horrifying death of the monk. There had not been the slightest resemblance between the manner of that death and the ones which came after. But—

  Who can say what form true demon-work can take? This might all be part of the same thing—whatever that "thing" might be.

  He turned to the Schiopettieri captain standing respectfully nearby. A quick check of his excellent memory brought up the man's name.

  "Ernesto, have there been any cases reported of people being burned to death? Say, over the past six months. Not murder cases—I would have heard of those—but things which simply seem like accidents?"

  The captain frowned. "A few, Lord Dorma. But nothing which seemed more than misfortune."

  Dorma pursed his lips. "Do me a service, if you would. Discreetly—discreetly, mind you—double-check all of those reports and tell me if anything strikes you amiss. For instance, a death with no eyewitnesses. Or a death whose cause seems unexplained. And while you're at it, now that I think upon the matter, check to see if there have been any kind of mysterious deaths. Whether by burning or—" His eyes glanced for a moment at the door to the kitchen. "Or by any means."

  The captain nodded. Dorma was satisfied that the man would do a thorough job. Petro was a polite man by nature; but that innate temperament had been reinforced by experience. He had learned long ago that treating his subordinates with courtesy produced far better results than arrogance and browbeating.

  That done, Dorma sighed. Nothing for it but to deal with the family, now. That was the aspect of his work he truly detested. The grisly parts of investigation he could handle with reasonable aplomb, controlling his squeamishness easily enough. But talking with grief-stricken relatives . . .

  Then, he remembered. And felt a little flush of guilt at the relief that flooded him.

  "The poor man was a widower, no?"

  "Si, Lord Dorma. His wife died two years ago."

  "No children?"

  "No, sir. Well—not here, not alive. Two children once, apparently. But one seems to have died long ago, of the plague. And the other took ship and has not been seen for several years. A son, lives now somewhere in Constantinople, I've been told. Estranged from his father, according to rumor."

  Petro nodded; and, again, felt some guilt. He really should not feel relief at the misfortunes of a poor family, simply because it removed an unpleasant task from his shoulders. For a moment, he wondered at the life of that family. One child dead of disease, another estranged and long gone. The mother dead, and now the father horribly murdered.

  It was a melancholy thought. He could only hope that the couple had gotten along well enough in the years they had spent together at the end, childless and alone. But there was nothing he could do about it now. Or could have, at any time. Once again, Petro Dorma reminded himself of the sharp limits to his power, for all its outward trappings. And in so doing, although he never once considered the manner, reconfirmed the wisdom of Venice's Senate in selecting him for his post.

  One of the chirurgeons emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag. Seeing Dorma, he simply shrugged, very wearily.

  As expected. Dorma nodded, a nod deep enough to convey to the chirurgeon his respect for the man's efforts. Then, started for the doorway leading to the street outside.

  "Take me to the priest now, Ernesto. If you would be so kind."

  * * *

  The priest was in the nave of his little church, located not much more than a block away. The elderly cleric was hunched on one of the pews, his head bowed, clutching a cross in his hands and trembling like a leaf. Clearly enough, reaction to the horrifying event which had transpired not long past was now setting in.

  Dorma did not begrudge the man his uncontrolled shivering. From what he could determine, at the moment of crisis the priest had done all he could—and done so with a courage which would not have shamed any of the Church's great martyrs. The fact that, afterward, a humble parish priest had fallen into quiet hysteria was
quite understandable. He was not, after all, a great condottiere like Carlo Sforza, accustomed to scenes of horrendous carnage and brutality.

  Dorma stepped up to the priest, stooped, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Please, Father, can you tell me what happened?"

  The priest raised his head and stared at Petro. His brown eyes were blurry with moisture.

  "It's very difficult, Lord Dorma," he whispered shakily.

  The fact that the priest knew the identity of his questioner did not surprise Dorma. Even though, to the best of his knowledge, he had never met the priest. In fact, he did not even think about it. Everybody in Venice knew who Petro Dorma was—his appearance and official position, at least, if not the full range of his powers and his membership on the Council of Ten.

  "I'm sure it is, Father, and I apologize for disturbing you at such a moment. But I really must learn as much as I can about what happened."