The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey

* * *

  "I don't trust you, Aldanto." He could see the swarthy, heavy-bodied man was ready to leap like a cat. Whether it was at Caesare's throat or away, Benito couldn't be certain.

  By Caesare's posture, Benito could tell that he too was keyed up. Small movements betrayed him. Benito, hiding in the deep shadows, on the roof across the alley, prided himself that he'd learned well from Caesare. He could even read his mentor. But Caesare's voice was dead-steady. "The feeling is mutual, Francesco Aleri. But it's business."

  "You are not welcome back."

  Caesare snorted. "I'm not coming back. And if I happen to die, some very interesting information will be forwarded to Ricardo Brunelli."

  It was the heavy-set Francesco's turn to snort. "You've got nothing. We've changed things since your time."

  Back on the shadowy rooftop Benito squinted, trying to absorb the details of his face. So, the man was a Montagnard agent. Well, his official title was "Milanese Trade Ambassador-at-Large." Benito knew that from delivering the initial message to the man at the German hotel next to the Rialto.

  There was a flash of teeth from Caesare. "Everything?" he asked slyly. "Even your sleepers?"

  Aleri gave a short bark of laughter "You don't know who those are. You were never on that part of the operation."

  "Ah, but on the other hand—Lorendana Valdosta was," purred Caesare. "Now, why don't we talk business. In there. You've got the Dandelos in your pocket."

  The two walked into the small shrine and, to Benito's frustration, he could hear no more than the indistinct murmur of their voices, no matter how hard he strained his ears. It had been something of a shock to hear his mother's name. But obviously Caesare had gotten something useful out of Marco's careful writings. Well, he was glad they'd paid something back.

  Minutes later, the two emerged and went their separate ways. Benito waited a good minute before slipping away like a ghost.

  * * *

  A good minute after that, Harrow moved. Marco was at least asleep, safe. But this younger boy! He was old Dell'este reborn, if rumors about the old duke were to be believed. Harrow found Benito's preference for roofs made him hard even for an experienced former-agent to track. Basically Harrow had to try to second-guess him. Either he was a good guesser or the Goddess was doing more than her fair share of intervention. He'd get lost in the alleyways and then catch sight of Benito . . . against all probability. Harrow had decided that if the Goddess wanted the boy followed she'd make sure he succeeded. Marco was easier. For this Harrow was devoutly grateful. But he was also glad he'd followed the younger boy tonight . . . first into the hotel and then to this rendezvous. Obviously, the Goddess had meant him to witness this. Obviously, also, Aldanto hadn't meant Benito to be here. But just from following him, Harrow knew that Benito wasn't good at doing what he was supposed to do.

  This meeting was a worrying one. He'd been sure that a meeting between Aldanto and Aleri could only be short, sharp—and end with Aleri dead. In his former life as Fortunato Bespi he'd seen both men's swordsmanship. Aldanto had the edge. Aldanto was perhaps the best he'd ever seen. So: what was this all about? No good, he'd bet. Interesting to hear Lorendana Valdosta's name. It had nearly startled him into moving. That had to be the Goddess's hand again. She watched Montagnards too.

  Chapter 53

  Luciano Marina had not expected to just move back to his old life. He thought he'd manage to scavenge a living around the Calle Farnese. What he hadn't realized was that the death of Gino Despini had left an empty hole at the center of Venice's Strega community. After Marina's disappearance, Despini had done his best to keep the city's Strega solid. But with Despini killed . . . by a still unknown hand . . . The Strega in the city were terrified—which, Luciano was now convinced, had been the purpose of the murder. And now that the Servants of the Holy Trinity were stirring up talk of burning out the whole of the Ghetto, being in a visible position of leadership was something all other Strega were shying away from.

  He hadn't realized it when he slipped into Itzaak ben Joseph's shop, hoping to scrounge a few coins to start a life in the city. He had little enough to offer. Some medicinal herbs, a couple of twists of blue lotos, a little fly agaric, and his patchy memory . . .

  He'd not expected Itzaak to peer at him warily, when he gave the old greeting, and once he recognized the face, fall on his neck. "Grimas! You have returned to save us in our hour of need."

  Dressed in new clothes, and walking around in the city which had once been his home, he'd felt ready to chance his arm. Appointments to the Accademia were in the hands of the Council of Ten. But the Marciana Library warden-positions were within the gift of the Doge. And, given Luciano's past history with Giorgio Foscari, the Doge's majordomo had been persuaded to arrange an interview.

  * * *

  Luciano had been shocked to see how much Doge Foscari had aged. Still, he'd bowed low and hoped the Doge would remember him. He had, after all, provided working diagrams of several of the clockwork devices Foscari loved.

  "Your Grace will perhaps remember the water-clock designs I obtained for you?"

  It had indeed rung a bell with the old man. "Where have you been, Dottore Marina?" asked the old man querulously. "The idiots in library now never set anything out clearly."

  "Doge Foscari, several years ago I undertook a brief journey to Fruili. On the way I was set upon, beaten and left for dead by bandits. It took me some months to recover under the care of a traveling monk. I could not remember who I was or where I came from. I'd been robbed of everything that gave any indication of my home or my station. The monk was on his way to the Holy Land. So, not knowing what else to do, I went there with him on foot. My memory was miraculously restored at the church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. Now I have returned, a wiser and—I think—better man. But I must find employment. Does Your Grace need anyone in the Marciana?"

  The Doge pointed a bony finger at him. "I need you there. I need more designs for my collection of mechanical marvels. All I ever get these days is reports of yet another ship lost. We've even lost galleys. Do you know when last—except at war—the Republic lost a galley? And now we have lost five to separate storms." His voice quavered slightly. "Send me some interesting plans for mechanical devices. You must have seen some things on your pilgrimage to inspire you."

  Luciano accepted readily. It would be a short step from the Marciana to occasional lecturing slots at the Accademia. Marina was confident that within six months he would be able to regain his position in the Accademia.

  * * *

  Now that he was back, back in the heart of the academic and Strega worlds, the fragmented patches of memory were uniting. He nearly had it all back now. And his fear was growing steadily.

  Strega were dying. And there was something very rotten at the Accademia. Money—lots of it, in a student community. Students were always broke. But from somewhere a river of coin was pouring in to the worst and most thuggish young noblemen. And knowing some of the families, it wasn't coming from their parents. There were also—unless he misread it totally—at least two cases of black lotos addiction among the students. Where was that coming from? Who would dare trade in the cursed stuff?

  And these terrible magical murders. Naturally, many people blamed the Strega for the killings. But, leaving aside the fact that Strega themselves had numbered among the victims, anyone familiar with the principles of magic would understand that these killings could not possibly be the work of Strega. Everything about the murders shrieked demonism.

  The community was almost paralyzed with fear. And his carefully placed scrying spells . . . revealed nothing. Nothing more than several sources of darkness . . . and some ice. And something trying to get to him, personally. A creature of the water; perhaps a monster, perhaps a shape-changer. It might not appear to be more than an unrestful period, with trade being bad, disease rife, and factional stresses high—but magically, Venice was under siege.

  Still. Something was stirring on the side of Venice
also. One of the old pagan "neutral powers." Something the Strega treated with great respect, even if they did not fully understand it. The Lion of Saint Mark . . . It was stirring if not fully awake. Demons were not the only ones who could work indirectly, and in mysterious ways.

  Luciano had fully accepted that the Shadow of the Lion was at work when he spotted young Rafael de Tomaso. De Tomaso's mother had raised her son in the Strega tradition. Luciano, in fact, had been there at the coming-of-age ceremony as one of the sponsors. Even if the young artist hadn't known Grand Master Marina by sight . . . He, Luciano, knew that boy.

  He had expected to see him at the Accademia. What he hadn't expect to see was Marco Valdosta walking beside him, deep in conversation. When he saw Marco, Luciano studied the crowd in the campo. Long and carefully. It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to spot Harrow in the shadows by the loggia.

  Circles within circles. Coincidences that shouldn't happen. The Lion casting its shadow . . . He was certain of it now. The knowledge brought courage with it.

  He was standing looking at the scene, his attention absorbed, when someone spoke to him. Snarled at him, rather. He turned to see yet another familiar face. One much less welcome than Marco's. Especially now that he was a bishop.

  Recognition was plainly mutual. "Are you deaf?" demanded Pietro Capuletti. "I asked you what you're doing here?"

  Luciano smiled wryly. "Admiring the campo. It's a more attractive view than a fat fellow in red."

  Capuletti's face hardened. "Your tongue will get you into a great deal of trouble with the Church. We want to know what you are doing back in Venice."

  Luciano wondered who the "we" was. Luciano distrusted Pietro Capuletti. He'd been a sneaky boy and Luciano Marina would bet he was an even more devious man.

  He also wondered if Pietro was still puppy-dogging after Lucrezia Brunelli. He was a fool, and always had been. There had never been any chance Lucrezia would have married him, even after he became a bishop. No Capuletti was ever going to be important enough to marry a Brunelli. Run errands for them, yes. Get fat on the crumbs from their table, yes. But curti like the Brunelli would never settle for lesser curti.

  "As I've told you before, I've been on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and now that I've returned I intend to re-establish myself here at the Accademia." He smiled urbanely. "Don't try to threaten me, Pietro. I have many friends in the Church. More than ever, after Jerusalem." Let Capuletti sweat that one. Many pilgrims took vows of anonymity. A trip to Jerusalem, instead of wandering mindless in the Jesolo marshes, would have certainly given him some church contacts—perhaps of great importance.

  "Ha." The bishop left without a further word, his anger proclaimed in his flaming cheeks and pursed little mouth.

  Chapter 54

  The rain was hissing down on the water. At a time when all sensible canal people—anyone with any sense at all—were indoors in front of a fire, maybe with a nice hot glass of mulled wine, Maria was out in the wet. But . . . things were rather tense between her and Caesare, right now. And he'd asked her to do this especially. And she really wanted to show him that she did love him. The last two weeks had been horrible. Left her sick to her stomach with a mixed mess of emotions.

  He'd been so hurt when she had accused him. That hair might have blown in the window or something. Didn't she trust him? And, then, he'd been loving and attentive once he'd gotten over being distant and hurt.

  She was still suspicious. But . . . she loved him. How could she let him go? So here she was getting soaked to the skin. She must be the only person on the water right now.

  But, no. There was another gondola on the canal. As it went by without so much as a greeting from the other paddler, Maria realized that she knew her. That wasn't really surprising—she knew most of the boat people. And if anyone would be out in the half dark and rain, it would be "the Spook."

  Maria was grateful, at least, that her destination wasn't all the way out to Guidecca to drop letters with Captain Della Tomasso this time. Tonight her rendezvous was comparatively close. Too close to the Casa Dandelo and the reek of its warehouses for comfort. You could smell the slaves even in the clean rain-washed air.

  She pulled into the little landing. Good. There was no one around yet. She must be early. She shivered. She moved down off the stern to the duck-boards and sat down, huddled against the gunwale.

  Someone loomed suddenly through the rainy darkness.

  "Well, let's have it," grumbled Maria. "I'm wet and cold and I want to get home."

  And then someone else jumped onto the stern behind her.

  Maria stood up hastily, reaching for her knife. "Hey! Figlio . . ." Bright lights and stars exploded in her skull. But not before she'd seen that it had been Luciano Matteoni jumping onto the stern of the boat.

  * * *

  When she awoke it was to the betraying stench of the Casa Dandelo. But all she wanted to do was to be sick and pray the pain in her head stopped. Once she'd cast up everything that was inside her onto the rotten straw, blessed oblivion came again.

  When she gradually awoke again . . . naked, cold, still sore, lying on the filthy straw a scant few inches from her own vomit . . . she was leg-shackled too. It was then that the true horror of situation dawned on her.

  Casa Dandelo.

  Slave traders.

  Officially, they were not permitted to touch hide nor hair of Venetian citizens. Officially, their "cargo" was checked. The poor of Venice knew the truth: the Doge and the Case Vecchie turned a blind eye. The Dandelos took what they could and if the slave might complain to the Capi di Contrada signing the cargo outbound on ship . . . they took out the tongue that might wag. Or beat the victim senseless. Either way, the Dandelos never released any of those who found their way into their clutches. They brought a lot of money into Venice, and Venice looked the other way. After all, it was only the poor and unwanted who ended up in their clutches. The Dandelos didn't want a fuss. As far as the officials of Venice were concerned, their depredations were nearly the equivalent of "human garbage" collection. So long as it stayed that way, the Council of Ten and the Signori di Notte left them to it.

  So: who would notice if she was gone? Well, Caesare would be waiting for his message. He'd panic.

  A short, dark-visaged, thick-bodied man looked in at her. Instinct made her cover her nakedness. But this man wasn't interested. You could see it in his look. Merchandise. She was no more appealing to him than a bale of cotton would be. Calm now. Try to talk your way out. "Let me out. I've got friends with contacts. Ricardo Brunelli . . ."

  The slaver grave a sardonic snort. "You wouldn't believe how many cousins of the Doge go through here. Anyway, the party wanted to know when you were awake." He turned and walked off.

  "Can I have some water?" Maria called after him.

  "If the man says so."

  She was left to her fears. The minutes passed slowly.

  The man who now entered walked like a cat. He was very like Caesare in that way. "I've got some questions for you about Caesare Aldanto. I will get answers. If I get good enough answers you'll go free."

  And Caesare would die. "You can burn in hell, figlio di una puttana."

  His hand twitched. "You are lucky there are bars between us woman," he snarled. "Any more lip from you and I'll see that you end up as a whore in Aleppo, servicing a hundred fresh-from-the-desert rancid camel drivers a night. You think you're tough. You might last a year."

  She spat at him.

  He wiped the spittle away from his face. "It seems you need to think about it. Let's see how well you spit after a day of being dry."

  * * *

  Tonio's whistle woke Marco. Sick child. Must be very sick to call Marco out of bed. Marco seemed to be suffering from a lack of sleep these days. He'd been to see Rafael the night before. He'd been for another private meeting with Milord Petro Dorma last night. He liked the balding, chubby, perpetually worried-looking Petro. He also got the feeling that, although Dorma would be funding his
studies at the Accademia, Petro was using him as a window into the world of the tradesmen and canalers.

  Again, Tonio whistled. Louder. Eyes bleary, Marco fumbled about, dragging on clothes. By the lack of light coming in through the shutter crack it was very early.

  Tonio whistled again; louder still. He'd have the whole neighborhood awake in a minute. Benito thrust open the shutters. "He's coming," he said crossly to the boatman below on the dark water.

  Tonio beckoned. "You too," he said.

  The two of them, both more-or-less dressed, legged down the dark stairs.

  "Who is sick?" demanded Marco, his herb bag in hand. His eyes were still half focused. It was still half dark.

  Tonio pointed to the gondola attached to his vessel by a rope. "Couple of the night fishermen picked it up on the tide-wash. They brought it to us."

  Marco recognized the boat now. Maria's. A terrible sinking feeling hit his gut.

  "Maria?"

  Tonio shrugged. "Maybe she fell overboard."