The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey

  Ducats to buy support . . . inside the Accademia where the sons of Venice's nobles were an available target.

  Marco's head buzzed, and his gut went tight with excitement. So—Accademia might be involved in this new Milanese policy!

  Or part of the Accademia was. Marco was no longer so naïve as to figure that what one priest wanted, the rest did too. Assuming, of course—which those at Elmo's did—that the bishop's superiors were aware of his loyalties. Which might, or might not, have been the truth. In either case, it was something Caesare Aldanto would find fascinating indeed.

  Marco hustled the last of the dishes into the kitchen, took off his apron, and hung it up for the last time. He had what he needed; time to give Michelo his job back. Now only one thing remained; for Marco to verify with his own eyes exactly what was going on down at the Ventuccio warehouse and how it was being conducted.

  * * *

  Aldanto was beginning to have a feeling of déjà vu every time he looked up from dinner to see Marco hovering like a shadow around the kitchen door.

  "Something wrong, Marco?" he asked, beginning to have that too-familiar sinking feeling. The last time the boy had had that look on his face, that—watcher—had moved in across the canal. And the time before—

  The time before was what had gotten them all into this mess.

  "Caesare—" the boy hesitated, then brought his hands out from behind his back. "This is for you."

  Aldanto took the slim package from the boy; a long and narrow, heavy thing, wrapped in oiled silk. He unwrapped it, and nearly dropped it in surprise.

  It was a fine—a very fine—main gauche, the like of which Caesare hadn't seen, much less owned, since his Milan days. Light-rippling oystershell folded Damascus steel; perfection from tip to sharkskin handle—balanced so well in his hand that it already felt part of him. Unmistakably Ferrarese workmanship. For nearly a century now, since Duke Andrea Dell'este had had the foresight and cunning to recruit steelworkers from the East and swordsmiths from Spain, and brought them together, Ferrara blades had become the standards whereby all other swords were judged.

  He was so surprised that his first thought was that the boy must have stolen it. The Lord knew it wasn't the kind of thing the boy could afford! But Marco spoke before he could voice that unworthy thought.

  "It—it's from my grandfather, milord," he said, his face and voice sounding strained. "He says it's by way of thanking you. He sent me one for Milord Dorma too—seems he wrote and told him who my mother was!"

  "He what?" Aldanto tightened his hand involuntarily on the knife hilt.

  "He says," Marco continued, "that he thinks Casa Dorma ought to know, and that I'm safer with them knowing, because they'll put me where hurting me would cause a vendetta no one wants. 'Hide in plain sight,' is what he says."

  "The man has a point," Aldanto conceded, thinking better of the notion. Relaxing again, he checked the weapon for maker's marks, and sure enough, on the blade near the quillions found the tiny Dell'este symbol. The old man was a shrewd one, all right—he hadn't kept his smallish city intact and largely independent while sitting between three powerful forces by being stupid. He had a real instinct for which way to jump. Besides, if Dorma now knew what station the boy really was, the obligations would be turned around. Dorma would now be in the position to negotiate favorably with the guardians of the Po River and the roads to Bologna and Rome.

  Marco was the son of an undutiful younger daughter of the House of Dell'este. But the Dell'este honor was legendary. It ran as deep as the heavens were wide. No trading family would want such an enemy. Marco would no longer be the object of charity, and the Dorma would actually wind up owing Aldanto for bringing the boy to their attention. Altogether a nice little turn of events—especially considering that he was being paid by Dell'este to watch over the boys.

  "He says," Marco continued, looking a little relieved but still plainly under strain, "it's by way of a bribe, milord, for you to keep Benito. He says he doesn't think we better let Dorma know about Benito at all, not that he's my brother."

  Aldanto thought about young Milord Lightfingers loose in Dorma and shuddered. "I think he's right." Besides, the boy might just be a main chance.

  * * *

  Marco carefully calculated his day off to coincide with the day that the Badoero hirelings picked up their consignment from the Ventuccio warehouse. By dawn he was down at the warehouse dock, ready and willing to run just about any errand for anybody. This wasn't the first time he'd been here—he'd played runner before, when he wasn't playing waiter's helper at Elmo's. He wanted his face to be a familiar one on the dock, so that he wouldn't stand out if Capi Tiepolo became suspicious. He even had Ventuccio permission to be out here; they thought he was strapped for cash, and he was supposedly earning the extra odd penny by running on his day off.

  He'd run enough of those errands by noon that no one thought or looked at him twice when he settled into a bit of shade and looked to be taking a rest break. The sun was hot down here on the dock; there wasn't a bit of breeze to be had, and Marco was sweating freely. One friendly fellow offered Marco the last of his wine as he went back on shift, and Marco accepted gratefully. He wasn't having to feign near-exhaustion; he was exhausted. He was mortally glad that the remainder of his self-imposed assignment was going to allow him to sit out here, in the shade of a barrel, and pretend to get splinters out of his hands while he watched the Badoero barge being loaded twenty feet away.

  The barge was a neat little thing; newly painted and prosperous looking. The boatman who manned her did not, however, look like the run-of-the-mill canaler.

  In point of fact, that carefully dirtied cotte looked far too new; the man's complexion was something less than weathered—and those hands pushed pencils far more often than the pole of a skip. Marco would be willing to bet money on it. This was no canaler, hired or permanent retainer. This was likely one of the younger members of the Family.

  This notion was confirmed when Capi Tiepolo put in his appearance. There was something very similar about the cast of the nose and the shape of the ears of both the good father and the boatman. Even in inbred Venice, features that similar usually spelled a blood-relationship.

  It didn't take long to load the tiny casks onto the small barge; Marco didn't bother to get any closer than he was. He wasn't planning on trying to see if the articles were stamped or not. He was doing what only he could, with his perfect memory.

  Even amid the bustle of the dock, he was keeping absolute track of exactly how many spice casks—and only the spice casks, nothing else—were going into the bottom of that barge.

  Three days later, when the bundle of tax stamps came in, Marco had his answer. Three more casks had gone into the barge than there were stamps for.

  * * *

  That night he intended to give Caesare Aldanto his full report—but that afternoon he got an unexpected surprise.

  A creamy white and carefully calligraphied note from the House of Dorma.

  * * *

  Marco finished his report to Aldanto, given while he was finishing his dinner in the kitchen, and Caesare was both impressed and surprised. The lad had handled himself like a professional—

  Like an adult. He'd thought out what he needed to know, he'd planned how to get it without blowing his cover, and he'd executed that plan carefully, coolly, and patiently. Aldanto pondered the boy's information, and concluded that no matter how you looked at it, it was going to be worth a great deal to both sides of this messy and treacherous game he played. He nodded to himself, then looked up to see that the boy was still standing in the doorway, looking vaguely distressed.

  Aldanto's approval did nothing to ease the boy's agitation; if anything, it seemed worse. "Marco, is there something wrong?"

  "Caesare—" The boy looked absolutely desperate. "I—got this today—"

  He handed a square of creamy vellum to Aldanto; feeling a terrible foreboding, Caesare opened it.

  It proved to be
nothing more than a simple invitation for Marco—and a friend, if he chose—to come to dinner at Dorma, to be introduced to the Family.

  Aldanto heaved a sigh of relief. "One may guess," he said, handing the invitation back to Marco, "That Milord Petro Dorma has received your grandfather's letter." The boy's expression didn't change. "So what on earth is wrong?"

  "It's—it's me, Caesare," the boy blurted unhappily. "I was a child the last time I was in a noble's household. I don't know . . . how to act, what to say, what to wear . . ."

  He looked at Caesare with a pleading panic he hadn't shown even when he'd known his life hung in the balance. "Please, Caesare," he whispered, "I don't know how to do this!"

  Caesare restrained his urge to laugh with a control he hadn't suspected he had. "You want me to help coach you, is that it?"

  Marco nodded so hard Caesare thought his head was going to come off. He sighed.

  "All right, young milord—let's see if we can create a gentleman out of you." He smiled dryly. "You may wish yourself back in the swamp before this is over!" Inwardly he smiled. This might be tedious, but it would be valuable.

  Chapter 50

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "And you don't?" asked Eneko.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I didn't 'choose'—"

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

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

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

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

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