"Get real, Tonio!" snapped Benito. "Maria wouldn't even know how to fall off a boat, any more than you do. She was born on one."
Tonio shrugged. "Accidents happen," he said grimly. "Sometimes people help them to happen. You'd better go tell that fancy-man sellsword of hers." There was disapproval in the canaler's voice.
Benito took a deep breath. "Yeah. We'd better."
Caesare took it with a rigid face, allowing not one trace of emotion to show. "She'll be at the bottom of a canal with weights on her feet, I'm afraid. I should never have let her go out last night, in that rain. But she said they were relying on her. She said she'd overnight at Murano, if the rain got worse. I didn't worry too much . . ."
He shook his head, regretfully. "Leave me alone, please. I need some time."
"Sure, Caesare," said Benito quietly.
"Can I bring you a glass of wine, Caesare?" asked Marco.
Caesare smiled wanly. "No. Just leave me alone, please."
Benito and Marco went downstairs again. Marco found the emptiness and helplessness hard to bear. Benito snuffled slightly. It was a long quiet morning. Neither of them had it in themselves to go to work. Caesare had not come down, but they felt they should be on hand, perhaps . . .
The bells had just rung Sext when Marco decided he'd had enough. "Benito, I'm going across to Rafael."
"I'll tag along, if that's all right."
Marco understood the feeling. He didn't really like the idea of Benito being out and about and maybe in danger either.
* * *
"You're sure she's dead?" asked Rafael
Marco shrugged. "How can we be sure? But what else? They found her vessel, not her."
Rafael pursed his lips; looked at them thoughtfully for a while. "I do know someone who might be able to tell you if she's alive or dead. It is a little magical skill that he has. Do you have any of her clothing?"
Marco shook his head. Benito fished in his pockets. "Scarf she's been wearing?" he asked, pulling it out.
"That should work. Come on. He's over at the Marciana Library this morning."
* * *
Luciano looked up from the book he'd been peering at. The ink was old and fading. His eyes were tired. And there coming toward him was a sight for sore eyes: Rafael de Tomaso and Marco and Marco's brother. Well, it was time he made formal contact. He looked back among the stacks. There was Harrow. The boy was still protected.
* * *
Here, in between the books, he felt safe. Walking out to see Rafael, Marco had felt naked . . . as if they might be the next victims. Because he was utterly certain Maria hadn't disappeared by accident.
Still, he'd nearly fallen over his own jaw when Rafael brought them face-to-face with Chiano. Chiano wearing a fine cloak, and now calling himself Dottore Luciano Marina—but still unmistakably Chiano.
"Hello, Marco," his Jesolo guardian said with a smile.
It was Rafael's turn to look dumbfounded. "You know each other?"
For an answer, Marco embraced Luciano. "Better than you could dream, Rafael. And Sophia?" he asked. Seeing Luciano brought it back to him. He'd been forgetting a debt. He longed to see her, especially right now.
"She's still in the marshes, boy. Won't leave. Says it it's where she belongs, now. I went to see her a few days back. Misses you. You were always better with her medicines and potions than I was. So—what brings you here? I am delighted to see you, of course, but you came looking for me."
They explained.
Luciano looked grim. "The town is awash with trouble. Give me that scarf." He stretched both hands out, palms up.
Benito laid the scarf across them.
They waited.
Luciano shuddered briefly.
Took a deep breath.
"She is alive," he said slowly. "Hush. This is a library!"
"Sorry. We're just relieved."
"Don't be," said Luciano grimly. "All I can tell further is that she is a prisoner, and surrounded by water."
Benito took a deep breath himself. "Right! Well, we'll get a search organized. I'll get back to Caesare and have a word with all the runners. Marco, you could maybe get hold of Tonio. Get the canalers to look for anything."
Rafael smiled. "Your little brother's quite an organizer, Marco."
Marco took Luciano's hands. "Thank you, old friend. We'll find her. And even if she is in danger—we have friends." Turning to Rafael he smiled. "You don't want to try living with Benito, Rafael. He organizes himself out of all the bad chores. But Maria's important to him. She's important to me too, but Benito thinks the world of her, though he won't admit it. Anyway, I must go. Thank you both from the bottom of my heart."
* * *
Maria knew every detail of her cell by now. There wasn't much to learn. Three cubits by six, rusty iron bar-gate, and stone floor and walls. On the floor, moldy straw. On the walls, prayers and curses written in what could only be excrement. This was just one of some ten cells on this level. Solitary confinement for troublemakers and "specials," according to her neighbor. He claimed to be a wealthy cargo-master from Sicily, who had missed his ship and got himself into one bar brawl too many. He'd been mugged, robbed of everything but his breeches—and now these porco cane had taken even those.
There was no water. No place or container to relieve herself in. And a jailor who threatened to beat the pair of them if she spoke to her neighbor again. It wasn't worth it.
God, she was thirsty. And . . . eventually she had to use one of the corners of the cell. No wonder this place stank.
* * *
"How sure can you be of this, Marco?" asked Caesare. "I mean, as I said to Benito, these charlatans prey on the fact that it's hard to accept that someone you love is dead."
"He's no charlatan," said Marco, quietly. "He's the man who kept me alive in the marshes. I know you don't want to start hoping, Caesare. But he's a real magician. If he says she's alive, then she is."
Caesare stood up. "Then we'd better look for her. I'll get word out to some of my contacts. I'd better see Giaccomo. She did a lot of work for him."
Benito could be heard panting up the stairs. He was hot, tired, and enthusiastic. "I got her cousin Luigi and Fredrico. The Arsenalotti will be looking for her too. And I stopped by and woke up Claudia and Valentina. Once they'd gotten over it, they started to look too. We'll have everybody but the Schiopettieri out looking for her."
Marco smiled. It was best to be able to do something. "Well, now that you're back, you can go out again. Stick with Caesare, Benito. He's going to get to his contacts—but he might be the reason someone snatched Maria. I'm going to see if I can get Tonio to take me around to some of my 'patients.' I can get the bargees and boat-people looking too."
Benito stood up from the chair he'd flopped into. "Well, the other thing you could try is to stop by and see Kat. She's that 'Spook' I told you about. She has some contacts in among the Strega, I think. I was going to, but I'll be with Caesare. If you get a chance, go to Campo San Felice between seven and half past. She always wears a hooded cloak and she's got a shabby gondola. Anyway, just ask if her name is Kat and tell her you're my brother. Stick with Tonio if you can, Brother. I'm nervous about you being alone out there."
"I'll probably have my shadow, anyway."
"That you will," said Caesare grimly. "I don't want anyone on my back trail on this venture. You go out first."
They went their various ways. By the late afternoon, it seemed as if half of Venice was looking for Maria.
* * *
Maria was sitting in the one place that no one could go looking. And she didn't know for sure that anyone was looking for her.
"Are you ready to talk yet, sweetie?" asked her persecutor from the night before. The light was better now and she could see him clearly. She took in the details of his heavy-set face and his dress. He wore well-to-do merchant clothes. And, unlike the slave-warder's disinterest, his eyes roamed her naked body with an unpleasant eagerness.
He turn
ed to the warder. "Take her out of there. Give her a smock and put her in the 'interview' room. We'll have some wine and some food."
Maria behaved herself when the slave-warder let her out. She was quiet and submissive, putting on the slave-smock when she was told to. She knew that this wasn't the time to try anything. She hobbled her shackled way along to a room off the passage.
The room was bare. Except for two chairs and a small table. "Sit." There was a mug of wine and a plate of pasta on the table.
She sat. He sat down across from her.
"Taste your wine."
The devil will let me have a sip and then take it away from me, she thought. She took the mug and drained it. It was cheap raw strong red wine. And there was a lot of it.
"That was stupid, but predictable," said her interrogator, with a horrible smugness. "That was a lot of wine on an empty stomach. Which is what I wanted you to have, but I thought I'd have to persuade you. Now, I want answers. You might as well give them to me. Even if I have to take them out of you with pain, I'm going to get them. If I get them . . . I'll have them let you go."
The wine burned in her stomach. It might have been his intent to get her drunk, but it did lend her some courage. And heaven knew she needed it right now. Somehow his calmness was more unnerving than shouted threats. "How about some more of that wine?" she said with an assumption of casualness.
Without any warning he hit her. Hard. A stinging openhanded slap that rocked her head back. Maria tasted blood. Put her hand to her cheek. The speed and sheer violence of it left her huddling back in her seat with a little whimper of pain.
"Don't play games with me, bitch," he hissed. "You'll lose."
Chapter 55
Marco loitered around the edge of the Campo San Felice. This was stupid. How was he supposed to recognize this "Kat"? He'd been here ten minutes now, and had seen two old men manhandling a barge, and a solitary gondola going past without stopping. It wasn't much of a description to go on. A shabby gondola and a woman wearing a hooded cloak. This was a depressing waste of time.
* * *
Kat was depressed. It had been just over two weeks since she'd run into that woman who said she'd pass a message on to Benito. Huh. Imagine thinking Benito was her lover! She'd been at the Campo San Felice dead on time every night, except last Wednesday. Finally, two days ago, she'd ventured into Giaccomo's. He wasn't there. And one of Giaccomo's flunkies had quietly asked her to leave.
It had been a quiet request. But it was backed up with a potential threat. Clearly enough, some people had grown suspicious of the cargoes carried by "the Spook," and Giaccomo didn't feel he needed the possible complications of having her on the premises.
She'd tried Barducci's also. Those two singers had simply given her the wall-eye when she'd asked after Benito. She'd left a message with them, but she was willing to bet he'd never get that message. The only option that was left now was to go into Ventuccio's and ask to speak to Marco Felluci. . . .
She'd give it a few more days, but she was certain that Benito wasn't going to be there. She'd seen that canaler-woman last night, her head bent against the rain. But, in that downpour, Kat couldn't really have asked if she'd seen Benito lately. Not really the right time for a chat—nor the right area for it, either. You seldom found anyone hanging around Casa Dandelo. Not that you weren't safe enough on the water, but still . . .
She sculled towards the Campo San Felice. She couldn't see anyone. But then last time she hadn't seen Benito either.
* * *
The sky held the last translucent skeins of vermilion cloud. The sun was gone and that first whisper of the night-breeze brought the sound of distant laughter with it. The zephyr had picked up the scent of the sea from over the barrier lidi. For a moment, it carried Marco away. Back to the time centuries ago when the first refugees from barbarian invaders had smelled that same breeze, and had seen, perhaps for the first time, the swampy Rialto islands not just as refuge but also as a place of beauty. Venice had been loved, was loved. As much as a place of bricks, mortar and marble facing, the city of the winged lion was a great ancient repository of hopes and dreams. A place the barbarians had never managed to conquer. A city of love and lovers.
Then, cutting through the rippled, reflected last splendors of the day, came a gondola. Moving silently along the canal between the gothic-fronted buildings, sliding across the water, the dip and sway of the gondolier was as easy and graceful as a dancer's movements.
Marco looked across the water into the eyes of his kindred spirit.
The grace, romance, and beauty of the moment ended in a splash. His dream girl, her eyes locked on his, hit a mooring pole, dropped her oar, lost her balance and fell—fortunately—down onto her own duckboards.
The gondola was close to shore and Marco managed the jump without even thinking about it.
"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.
"Fine." said Kat, sitting up, her face blazing. "Er. See if you can grab my oar."
He leaned over the side and pulled it inboard.
* * *
Kat seized the moment to pull herself together. What an absolute idiot he must think her. What a complete fool! And what a way to meet him! She'd have wanted to put on some better clothes. Maybe some belladonna to widen her eyes . . . She must talk to Francesca about it.
One minute ago, she'd been sculling easily, putting minimal effort into it. The next she'd lost her concentration; lost her balance; lost her dignity; lost her oar . . . what should she say? Reality was with her, now. He might turn out to be a lot less likable than her imagination had painted him.
He pulled the oar onto the gondola; then, offered her a hand. "I'm sorry," he said smiling. "Maria says it's really bad manners to board a boat without permission. But I thought you might be hurt."
Whoever "Maria" is, she's going to have to go.
Now that he was up close, Kat found herself tongue-tied for the first time in her life. She settled for smiling at him. God, he was handsome. No. That was the wrong word. He wasn't ruggedly handsome. He was beautiful. No wonder this Maria was chasing him.
"You've hurt your hand!" he exclaimed.
There was indeed a thin trickle of blood running down her hand and onto her cuff. Kat looked at it and looked away. She really didn't like blood. "Oh, it's nothing," she said hastily.
"Here." He held out a tentative hand. "Let me see to it. . . . Signorina. I'm hoping to be a doctor one day."
"It's fine. Really."
He smiled. "I won't hurt you. I promise."
God in heaven, he could cut the hand right off if he wanted to. Well, if he wanted her as a practice patient she could have lots of injuries. Lots. If he wanted to lie her down on the duckboards—
Her mind shied away from that line of thought. She held out the hand.
He was gentle and surprisingly professional about it. "Just a scratch, I think. If you would just come over there to the light I could clean it and bandage it quickly."
"Thank you," she said, wishing he hadn't let go of her hand. "And I think we'd better tie up because we're drifting."
Two minutes later, the hand was neatly and professionally bandaged; the ragged scratch cleaned out. "There. Good as new within two days."
"And how do I find the doctor if it needs further attention?" She did her best to make the question sound casual.
"Oh. Well, I spend quite a lot of time over at Zianetti's near the Accademia."
So all this time hanging around Giaccomo's and even venturing into Barducci's had been vain endeavor! "Well . . . I'll find you there." If have to invent an injury. "What's your name?"
"Marco. Ah, Felluci." He bit his lip; then: "Well, I'd like to ask you to have a glass of wine with me, but I've got to wait for someone for Benito. Then we've got to go back to looking for Maria."
That explained it. He worked with Benito! What could be more natural than the scamp would send his friend off to see what she wanted. And what a friend to choose! But if this "Mar
ia" was a girlfriend, then she—Kat Montescue—was going to do her best to make sure she stayed lost. "And this 'Benito,' did he tell you who you were to wait for?" she asked, managing to keep a straight face.
Marco shook his head. "Someone called 'Kat.' He's been avoiding her because she's trouble, but with Maria gone missing . . ."
It was Kat's turn to bite her lip. "Trouble," was she? Well, there was some justification to that that description. She'd partly orchestrated it herself, and, well, she did have dangerous associates. The story Benito brought back couldn't have enhanced a saint's reputation, she'd bet.
Then the humor of it all got through to her.
* * *
She has the most delicious laughter in the whole world, thought Marco. I could listen to it forever, even though I don't see what is so funny.
The Shadow of the Lion Page 57