Shadow of the Lion

It was a precarious way to survive. No wonder that Caesare didn't want to go himself to Casa Brunelli with a scroll destined for someone other than Ricardo. To be kept secret from Ricardo, in fact.

For a guest at the Casa . . .

"Well, there it is." Benito pointed down at the glass windows of the Casa Brunelli. Across the canal, Marco could see the massive edifice which served the Holy Roman Empire as its embassy in Venice.

"You stay up here," said Marco sternly. "Don't try and peek. I'll be out presently."

Benito shrugged. "Huh. Can't see anything on the south side anyway. Unless I climb up the Imperial embassy, and I hear they've got some of the Knights of the Holy Trinity on watch on the roof."

"Just stay here," repeated Marco, as he dropped off the guttering to a narrow, rickety wooden outside loft-stair. It was only when he was close to the cobbled street that it occurred to him that Benito knew more than was comfortable about watching the Casa Brunelli.

With a boldness he didn't feel, he went up to the arched doorway and raised the heavy knocker. Before the hollow boom of it had even died away, the door opened. The liveried door warden looked disdainfully at Marco. "Yes?" he asked frostily.

"I have a message--" began Marco.

The door-warden snorted. "Messages for those in the Casa Brunelli are carried by the house messengers. Not by scruffy urchins." The door began to swing closed.

"For Senor Eneko Lopez--your master's Castilian guest," said Marco, hastily putting a foot in the way and hoping that the heavy iron-scrolled door would not simply crush it.

The heavy door stopped. "He's Basque, not Castilian!" For some reason, the point seemed important to the door warden. From his slight accent, Marco suspected he was originally from Spain. But Marco found Italian politics confusing enough, without wanting to know the quirks of the Iberian variety.

"I will have it taken to him," the door warden added, grudgingly.

Marco shook his head. "No. My master said I must give it into his very hands, and carry his reply."

The doorman snorted again. But he plainly did not want to anger his master's guest. Reluctantly, he opened the door and allowed Marco to enter. Watching Marco as if he expected this cockroach-in-human-form to instantly begin laying eggs or stealing the silver, he tinkled a small bell. A footman appeared hastily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The door warden sniffed. "Louis. Take this . . . messenger up to Senor Lopez. He says he is to wait for a reply."

The tone said: and watch him like a hawk.

The footman led Marco to the back stairs. Not for the likes of him the front steps. They walked up four flights of ill-lit stairs . . . And then were nearly knocked down them again by an extremely angry woman, who was so busy looking back up that she failed to see them. Even in poor light she was a truly beautiful lady, clad in a low-cut azure Damask-silk gown, trimmed with a jabot of finest Venetian lace. Her hair was on the red side of auburn; her skin, except for flaming patches on her cheeks, a perfect unblemished cream.

The footman nearly flung himself up the wall to get out of her way, with a hasty terrified "scusi."

Marco pressed himself against the wall too. She didn't say anything to either of them, but her angry look promised retribution later. Marco was glad he wasn't the footman, and that he'd never have to encounter her again. He had a feeling that despite her legendary beauty, Lucrezia Brunelli (and this could only be her) would enjoy making someone else's life a misery. And she looked mad enough about something to be looking for a victim, shortly. But even angry, she was beautiful.

Marco shook himself guiltily. How could he think this of anyone but Angelina?

They walked on to the upper floor. The footman knocked.

"I am at my devotions, Lucrezia," said the voice from within. The accent was distinctly foreign. But the tone had a suggestion of tried patience.

The footman cleared his throat. He gave Marco a quelling look. "Senor Lopez. It is I, Louis. I have brought a messenger to see you."

"My apologies. Bring him in, Louis."

Marco found himself bowed into the presence of a short, slightly built man, who was carefully placing a marker in a book. He too had reddish hair. For a moment Marco found himself wondering why the woman who was considered to be the reigning beauty of Venice should interest herself in this man. Then Eneko Lopez turned and limped toward him and Marco realized what attracted Lucrezia Brunelli to this foreigner.

Power. There were the eyes of an eagle under that solid, heavy single line of dark brow. Even without a word spoken between them, Marco knew this to be a man in whom the fires of spirit burned high. And, by his calm assurance, someone to whom command was almost inborn. "Thank you, Louis. That will be all." The footman bowed respectfully and left.

"You have come from Mainz, or from the Grand Metropolitan?" The Basque held out his hand to take the scroll.

Marco swallowed, and passed over the scroll. "Neither, sir. My master is here in Venice. He said I must wait and take a reply."

Lopez sighed. "I had hoped . . . Never mind. All things will come to pass eventually. Sit."

So Marco sat down. The guest of Brunelli's occupied a room that filled him with envy. It was full of books, leather-bound volumes on volumes. Marco gazed hungrily at them. In the meantime, Lopez had taken his own seat at a small desk nearby. He cracked the seal and scanned the contents of the scroll.

When he finally spoke his voice was cold. "You may tell your master that I am neither prey for blackmail nor interested in treachery. He misinterprets my work here on the Rio del Ghetto, as he does my messages to Rome."

Marco rose hastily. Rio del Ghetto. Where the "magicians" sold their charms and wares. Where the Jews were supposed to remain, although in tolerant Venice that practice was widely ignored. Very close to where he and Benito had shared lodgings. Rome . . . well, the Grand Metropolitan was not overly enamored with Venice's religious health, if Father Del Igilo was to be believed.

But this was no time for debate. "Yes, Signor," was all he said.

As Marco turned to leave, the Basque rose from the desk and said grimly: "Stop. Since you chose to come here, I will have a few words with you as well."

Marco froze. "I d-didn't 'choose' anything, sir. My master--"

"How old are you?" demanded Lopez.

"S-sixteen."

"Old enough not to think like a boy any longer. What is your name?"

The man's force of personality was too great to resist. "Marco, sir. Uh, Marco--ah--Felluci."

The Basque snorted. " 'Felluci'? I doubt it. But if you chose a false surname--chose, young Marco--then you need to give a thought to all your choices. At sixteen, you can no longer use the excuse of being a 'boy.' You are a man, now. And a man chooses his own masters."

Marco said nothing. Lopez sighed. "Not a man yet, it seems. Very well." He resumed his seat and turned his face away, studying a document on the desk. "When you do decide to become a man, Marco-who-says-he-is-Felluci, I advise you to find another master. This one walks a path to ruin. If you continue to follow him, you will share his fate."

The footman was lurking outside the door. He saw Marco off the premises, with no comments but a tight set to his face. Well, thought Marco, at least he was being shown out and didn't have to deal with Lucrezia Brunelli in a foul mood.

Benito was loitering in the street. "I thought you were going to stay on the roof," said Marco when Benito joined him.

"Came down to meet you."

"How did you know . . . ?" Marco sighed. "Never mind. You've been peering in windows again, haven't you? You'd do this side of Caesare's business much better than I can."

Benito shuddered. "Believe me, brother. This was one time I was really glad it was you. That's a scary guy. I've seen him before, that time when . . . never mind. Now come on. Let's climb up there and get moving if you still want to drop in at Barducci's tonight."

Marco thought of Angelina. The thought was enough to get him moving up to the slippery coppo tiles. Benito was already walking up the rickety stairs that had given them such an easy descent. The roof was an easy jump and haul from there. Marco sighed. It wasn't the roof walking as much as the looking down that worried him.

* * *

Benito peered over the roof edge. They'd have to descend here again. Then he put out a hand to stop Marco. There were two people coming out of a sotoportego into the broad Calle dei Fabbri below. To discourage cutpurses and cutthroats, there were oil lamps burning in niches there. You could see the two men clearly, just for a moment.

They were both tall, and one of them very large. The large one was dark-haired; the other blond. The dark-haired man moved with a sort of solid determination, the blond with catlike grace.

"Knights of the Holy Trinity. Even if they're not in uniform," whispered Benito. "I saw both of them . . ." His voice trailed off.

An errant night-breeze stirred the mist and brought a snatch of conversation up from below.

" . . . shouldn't have come. This is my affair, Manfred."

A snort. "I think I owe her more for 'services' than you do, Erik."

The two stopped outside a building with long Moorish-style arched windows, and knocked.

Benito gave a low whistle. "Well, well, well. Who would have thought it?" He chuckled. "So much for their holiness."

Marco looked. It seemed a fairly innocuous if moderately well-to-do three-story building. "What is it?"

Benito looked startled. "Sorry. I forget that you lived in the marshes for so long. That's the Casa Louise. It's . . . um, a place where wealthy merchants and some of the Case Vecchie maintain their mistresses. I guess you could call it a bordello, but it's as high-class as it gets."

Benito studied the two knights below, squinting a bit. "It's funny, though. I wouldna thought knights--not that young, anyway--could've afforded the women in this place."

Marco shook his head. His brother's knowledge of vice worried him. He supposed that, having lived in town for all these years, the boy would have more knowledge of things like that than he did.

Chapter 26 ==========

"Oh, my--" Kat stood in the doorway wide-eyed at the sight of Francesca's new suite of rooms. Francesca smiled wryly.

"Don't be too impressed, my dear," she said. "Remember how this is all paid for. My five current patrons are all over fifty, two are fat, one is bald and has a nose the size of a melon, and the last, poor man, needs--" She considered for a moment how to phrase what she wanted to say delicately. "--a great deal of encouragement to achieve his desires."

Kat blushed a charming color of pink.

Francesca's smile widened. "However, things may be on the verge of improvement. In one respect, at least. Do you recall that very large knight who was one of your rescuers at the church?" Seeing Kat's nod, Francesca cheerfully related the incident where she had provided Manfred and Erik with a means of escape from an ambush--sparing no details at all.

Kat blushed a charming color of scarlet.

Francesca laughed. "Don't be so innocent! That young knight certainly isn't--the large, young one, I mean. In fact, he and his blond friend visited just yesterday evening. To tender their thanks, they said. Which I have no doubt is all the blond one intended, but not large young Manfred." Her smile was now almost seraphic. "So I do believe I shall be acquiring a new patron, and very soon. He'll tire me out more, of course, but it'll still be a nice change of pace."

Kat's blush was beginning to fade; all the faster, as her face was creased by a frown of puzzlement. "I wouldn't have thought that a young knight could afford you in the first place, even if--" She stumbled over the next words, trying to avoid offense.

"--even if his morals were scandalous for someone supposedly devoted to holy orders?" finished Francesca, grinning. "Such an innocent! Kat, one of my existing patrons is quite high-ranked in the Church--and no temporary confrere knight, either."

The grin faded, and Francesca looked away. "As for the other . . . I'd just as soon not talk about it. Better for you also if I don't, girl, trust me. Just remember that confrere knights, whatever their current state, are often young men from the elite of the Empire. So a large purse is not really that surprising. Large enough, at least"--waving her hand about--"for these purposes."

She shook her head. "But enough of that! I am really so glad that you accepted my invitation," Francesca continued merrily. "My afternoon is entirely free today, as it happens. I made certain of it." She gestured at the sofa, chaise, and chairs, inviting Kat to take her choice among them.

Kat gingerly took a seat on the sofa, which betrayed her with its softness as it was intended to do, drawing her into a cushioned embrace. Kat resisted for a moment, then, wearing a sheepish smile, allowed the sofa to have its way with her.

Francesca reclined on the chaise, which bore more than a passing resemblance to an ancient Roman dining-couch. Not only was it an attractive pose, it was supremely comfortable. "Help yourself to the fruit next to you, by the way," she offered. "If you don't, it will only spoil--one of my admirers sends it every day, far more than I can eat. Evidently his last inamorata had the appetite of an elephant." As Kat reached for a grape, she continued. "I've already taken some measures to protect you if . . . your personal situation becomes worse. I spoke to the Madame about having a house gondola. Although she doesn't believe we need one yet--" Francesca emphasized the yet "--she agrees that we could use a very discreet courier for various errands, which could include patrons who for one reason or another would rather not make use of public boats or their own. And she also agrees that I will soon need a private gondolier of my own, in any event. It wouldn't pay a great deal, but . . ."

Kat let out a sigh. "It would enable me to survive, whatever else." She tried to look on the bright side. "If nothing else, it'd be safer than what I'm doing now. No one's going to pester Case Vecchie in a gondola, or a courtesan going to visit one discreetly."

"That was my thought also, although"--another grin--"I saw no reason to mention your current activities to the Madame. You'd probably want to wear a mask, of course, since I imagine you'd want to keep your identity secret. From other Case Vecchie most of all, since yours is one of the four oldest houses."

She paused for a moment, allowing Kat to absorb the fact that Francesca had learned she was Montescue. But Kat was neither surprised nor worried. She'd realized very soon after meeting Francesca that the courtesan was far too intelligent for Kat to be able to keep her family identity a secret from the woman for very long. And, perhaps oddly given Francesca's self-admitted (say better, self-proclaimed) mercenary nature, Kat was not worried about betrayal. For reasons she could not pinpoint, but didn't doubt at all, she knew Francesca could be trusted completely. In this matter, at least, if no other.

So, she simply returned Francesca's gaze with a level one of her own. And then, slowly, smiled.

Francesca's face softened. Her eyes even seemed to acquire--just for an instant--a slight film of moisture. "Thank you for that, Kat," she said, very softly. "Friendship does not come often, to a courtesan. We treasure it all the more for its rarity."

But her gaiety returned immediately. "And now--enough of all this gloomy business. Let's look to a brighter future. Information I promised you, information I have. That's really why I asked you to come here. So. Let's trade gossip!"

"Gossip?" Kat asked incredulously.

Francesca laughed. "When women talk, it's called gossip; when men do it, it's called information. In either case, it's an exchange that could profit one or both of the parties. That was our arrangement, wasn't it?"

"I suppose--" Kat looked dubious now, and Francesca shook her head. "Believe me, dear, men are far worse at holding their tongues in the presence of a woman than a woman is in the presence of anyone. I may know something that you can turn to profit that I can reveal without breaking confidences. But let's start with you. What's the current news down on the water?"

* * *

When they were done, perhaps two hours later, Francesca was no longer smiling.

"None of this is good, Kat. Although I'm glad you'll be able to turn some of my tidbits of information to profitable use. But something's deeply wrong. Something . . ." She hesitated, groping for words.

"Good times and bad times," shrugged Kat. "The world is like that. Certainly Venice."

Francesca shook her head, quite forcefully. "This is more than simply 'bad times.' Something--someone--is deliberately making things as bad as possible."

Kat frowned. "Why do you think that? And why would anyone want to do it?" Before Francesca could answer, Kat made a little waving motion with her hand, forestalling objections. "Oh, sure--Duke Visconti wishes Venice all the ill in the world. But even he has nothing to gain by creating turmoil in the city. No matter how desperate Venetians ever got, the last thing they'd accept is Milanese intervention in our affairs."

The courtesan sitting across from her lifted herself up from the chaise and began pacing about slowly. Kat was struck by how silently she moved.

" 'Intervention,' no. But what if the purpose wasn't intervention? What if it was simply--destruction?"

"And what would be the point of that?" cried Kat. "If Milan tried to destroy Venice--which they couldn't do anyway--we're an island and our fleet is far more powerful than anything they could muster--" Her words were coming in a rush.

It was Francesca's turn to wave down an objection. "Not Milan, Kat. Not, at least, as anything but a tool. I was thinking of Lithuania."

Kat's face went completely blank. She stared at Francesca, for a moment, as if she had suddenly found herself confronted by a raving lunatic.

Seeing the expression, Francesca chuckled. "I'm quite sane, I assure you. Yes, Kat, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Poland is very far from Venice. And has no common border with it. No apparent source for mutual conflict." She shrugged. "Not even the commercial rivalry which periodically agitates the Hungarians and the Genoese and the Greeks in Constantinople."

"Exactly. So why in the world--"

"Who is the great rival of Lithuania, Kat?" interrupted Francesca.

"The Holy Roman Empire, of course."

"Precisely. And what will happen if Venice is destroyed? Who will fill the sudden power vacuum in northern Italy and the Adriatic? Not Milan!"

Kat stared at her. Then, slowly, remembering things her father--and even more, her grandfather--had told her in times past . . . things Dottore Marina had told her also, now that she thought upon it . . . her face began to pale.

Francesca made a most unfeminine grunt. "Precisely. Grand Duke Jagiellon's reputation for insensate brutality is well-earned, girl. But don't be fooled by it. He is also a consummate manipulator. A man who prefers to let others bleed themselves to death, if at all possible."

Kat spoke in a whisper. "If Venice . . . is destroyed, the Holy Roman Emperor will have no choice. If he doesn't come in, the Hungarians surely will. And--and--"

"And Charles Fredrik, with Lithuania and the borderlands to deal with already, cannot also afford to see a more powerful Kingdom of Hungary--especially not one with a toehold in Italy. Especially not with a man on the throne like Emeric, who doesn't quite have Jagiellon's reputation--outside of Hungary, that is--but comes in a very close second."

"There'd be war between the Empire and Hungary!"

Francesca nodded. "For a certainty. With--for a certainty--Milan and Rome sucked into the vortex as well. Genoa also, be sure of it--soon enough, the Greeks as well." She resumed her slow, silent pacing. "Ever since he took the throne, one of Charles Fredrik's policies has been to stay out of Italian affairs. He's resisted--harshly, at times--every attempt of the Montagnards to drag him into this morass of endless bickering. 'The Po pisshole,' he's been known to call it."

Despite her own mild reflex of Italian chauvinism, Kat couldn't help but laugh a little at the crude expression. And admit, privately at least, that there was some justice to the barb. It was a fact that Italians--northern Italians, especially--were prone to endless and ultimately futile feuds and vendettas. Had not her own beloved Grandpapa, an otherwise sane and even kindly man, been obsessed for years with his feud against the Valdostas? A house which no longer even existed, except in vague rumors and her grandfather's heated imagination.

"What can we do, Francesca?"

Francesca shrugged. "Us? Nothing. You must tend to the affairs of Casa Montescue. I can think of few things which would be better for Venice than to have that house back on its feet again. Me?" She chuckled. "I'm just a very fancy whore, girl." She spread her arms wide, in a gesture of helplessness. "Do I look like the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire?"

Kat sighed. "No." Then, giggled a little. "I've never met him, but . . . I don't think he's got your cleavage."

* * *

The Emperor's "cleavage," at that moment, was quite invisible. Covered as it was not only by the thick velvet of his imperial robes of office but by his own thick hands, clasped and folded across his chest as he listened to his adviser.

Baron Trolliger came to the last item on the agenda. "Oh, yes," he sighed, "that obnoxious Father Francis is still pestering you for another audience. I assume you'll want to me brush him off again. He's seen you once already. That's more than enough for the demands of courtesy. Irritating man! I'll tell him--"

"Send him in," interrupted the Emperor.

Trolliger stared at him. "He's just a priest, Your Majesty. Not even, from what I can tell, one in the good graces of Rome. He's certainly not an official emissary from the Grand Metropolitan."

Charles Fredrik's lips twisted into a wry smile. "I should think not, given his purpose here. I rather imagine the Grand Metropolitan has been tempted more than once to strangle him--even more so, the Father Lopez from whom Father Francis takes his directions."

The look of surprise vanished from Trolliger's face, replaced by impassivity. For all that the baron was one of the Emperor's closest advisers and agents, he knew full well that there were matters which Charles Fredrik chose not to discuss with him. This mysterious business of giving an obscure and apparently unimportant priest another private audience was obviously one of them.

"As you command, Majesty." Trolliger rose from his chair and began making for the door.

The Emperor stopped him. "I'd just as soon you were here for this audience, Hans. Have a servant bring the man."

The baron cocked an eye at the Emperor. Then, sighed. "I suppose this means I'll be traveling soon."

Charles Fredrik smiled and spread his hands in a gesture which expressed, in part, uncertainty. But which, mostly, expressed irony at the complicated world of political intrigue. "Most likely."

Trolliger managed, more or less, not to scowl.

* * *

An hour later, after Father Francis had come and gone, the baron was making no effort at all to keep his scowl hidden. "It's insane, Your Majesty. What these lunatics propose amounts to creating a Petrine version of the Servants of the Holy Trinity. As if the Servants aren't enough grief already. And then--then!--they want your permission to operate freely in imperial territory. I don't even want to think about the mess that would create."

Charles Fredrik studied his adviser under lowered brows, his heavy hands clasped over his purple robes of office. "I've already got a mess on my hands, Hans. Or are you so naive as to think that the mission which the Servants sent to Venice was as innocent an affair as they claimed?"

Trolliger's lips grew pinched. The Emperor chuckled. A suggestion of "naivete" was perhaps the ultimate insult in the baron's lexicon.

"No, I didn't think so," murmured Charles Fredrik. He rose to his feet and moved toward the narrow window nearby. "Then tell me, Hans--what are the Servants doing in Venice? Not to mention all those Knights they've assembled there." Now at the window, he cocked his head and gazed at his adviser.

Trolliger shrugged. "I don't know, Your Majesty. My spies tell me--"

"Nothing," interrupted the Emperor curtly. "Nothing worth knowing." He slapped the stone wall. "They're up to no good, Hans. I can feel it in my bones. And I've felt for some time anyway that the Empire was relying on them too much. At this point, I don't have a single magician worthy of the name who isn't a damned Sot. Where does that leave me--especially if Jagiellon is undertaking a campaign against me? Which I am now certain is what's ultimately at the bottom of these mysterious doings in Venice."

Not even Trolliger could keep a look of surprise from his face. "Jagiellon?" For a moment, he fumbled for words. "But--he's the archdemon in the Servants' pantheon of evil. Has been ever since he came to the throne four years ago."

"So?" shrugged Charles Fredrik. "It wouldn't be the first time in history that people got too close to their enemy, would it?" He scowled through the narrow window. "Which is what I suspect happened to Jagiellon himself. Until he seized the throne from his father, there had been no indication that Jagiellon was anything more than another ambitious and bullying Lithuanian prince. Since then . . ."

"There's something dark about the man," admitted the baron. "Even by the standards of the Lithuanian nobility."

" 'Dark'?" snorted the Emperor. "Say better: 'black as night.' " He rubbed his heavy jaw thoughtfully. "Why does he wear that mask at all times, for instance? Simply to disguise the scars he claims to have received when he tried to fend off his father's assassins?"

Charles Fredrik turned away from the window and resumed his seat behind the heavy desk he used for working audiences. "I think not. I don't believe for an instant that Grand Duke Jagiellon is truly blind. Nor more than you. I think he keeps his eyes covered so no one can see the monster shining through them."

Trolliger took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "That is," he admitted, "my deepest fear also."

"Exactly," said the Emperor, nodding. "Which means that if Lithuania is behind the situation unfolding in Venice, we face something far worse than simple political intrigue. And if that's true, then I think I'd be a fool to keep relying on the Servants of the Holy Trinity."

"The Empire is Pauline, Your Majesty. The populace and the dynasty both. To allow--"

"Bah!" The Emperor's thick hand slammed down on the desk. "Do I care about the quarrels of theologians? I have an Empire to maintain, Hans. Be damned to all that!"

Again, the baron took a deep breath; again, let it out slowly. Then abruptly nodded his head. "True. And, as always, I am at your command." He pushed back his chair, beginning to rise.

"Venice it is, then. God in Heaven, I detest that city."

The Emperor waved him back down again. "It's not quite that bad. I think we can rely on Father Francis to pass on my message to his Father Lopez in Venice. No reason for you to go there. Instead--"

Trolliger didn't so much resume his seat as fall into it. The baron was quite familiar with the intricacies of northern Italian politics. He could see immediately the logic of the Emperor's train of thought.

"Oh, no," he groaned.

Charles Fredrik grinned. "Ferrara's not so bad. A very pretty little city, in fact, as I recall."

The baron's scowl would have frightened ogres. "Who cares about the city? Have you ever--personally--negotiated with Enrico Dell'este? You think they call him 'the Old Fox' for nothing?"

The Emperor's grin didn't so much as waver. "That's why I have advisers and trusted agents."

Chapter 27 ==========

Maria had observed that hooded look in Caesare's eyes for the last few days. He was planning something again. That always worried her. He seemed quite back to his strength now, and that new wound had nearly healed entirely. But still--it always worried her.

She often wished she'd fallen for a man who had some kind of ordinary, safe, boring job. But . . . he was so fine.

"Right," said Caesare that evening, after they'd eaten. "I've got some documents coming down from Milan. Stuff from a contact back in the old days. The worst of it is one of my informers tells me half the town also knows about it. My old friend Aleri will have his watchers out for sure. I hear that someone, probably that Montagnard bastardo Aleri, has tipped off the Council of Ten. I've got stuff in that parcel for Ricardo Brunelli, stuff which will bring a nice sum in Rome, and some things I want none of them to see. This is worth a good bit of money, and we're short. So I'm going to use people they're hopefully not watching. I haven't used you, Maria, for much of the serious stuff. And I'm pretty sure you boys aren't marked at all."

He paused, pulling a wry face. "The parcel is being dropped off at old Grazzi's factory on Murano. That's close to your regular Wednesday run anyway, Maria. Marco goes across under that tarp and jumps out under the Ponto San Donato. Marco, you wait a bit and when no one's around, you can go and pick the stuff up. I'll give you a ring to show the old man. Then you come and meet up with Maria. Then, coming back, Marco can slip off under the Ponto at the Calle del Erbe, go across and into Ricci's for a brioche and glass of wine, as if he was just on his way to work at the booth on the piazza. One of the barmen, the Greek, is one of mine. I have him absolutely by the balls and I'm damned certain nobody knows it yet. He'll come up to you and say 'I'm Nicothedes.' You give it to him. Then you go to work at Ventuccio's as usual."

"I'm much better at sneaking than Marco!" protested Benito. "Let me do it. I'll be out of Maria's gondola like a greased rat and into old man Grazzi's so quietly--"

Caesare looked coldly at him. "If you'll just wait a moment, boy. Your job is the tougher one. The way this works is the other side doesn't know exactly when it's coming into town. They'll be watching me. They'll be watching my associates. They'll be looking for any break in the pattern. So you're going to be both yourself and your brother. He normally leaves here a good bit before you."

Benito punched Marco's arm. "He likes to dawdle along the way."

Caesare smiled wryly. "Fortunately. You--in his clothes--will go as far as Ricci's. That hat he's been wearing to show off to the girls is quite distinctive. Then you cut out and come back here over the rooftops. Then, in that green cotte of yours, you go out again and to work. Marco can't do the rooftops. It's a pity you're shorter than he is, but ten to one it'll be foggy tomorrow morning and at that time of day the light's bad. You'll also have to get Marco out of here and into the bottom of the gondola, maybe two hours before Lauds. Maria's gone long before then, but they'll be watching that water-door. She must leave alone."

Maria looked at the boys. Marco looked nervous. Benito . . . well, Benito looked delighted.

* * *

Marco had found it a grim morning so far. Firstly, Benito--whom he normally had to roust out of bed--had woken him in the pitch-black; then made him dress in the dark and climb out of a tiny window next to the kitchen-chimney. It wasn't meant for someone his age and size.

Benito had led him across what seemed a mile of coppo tiles to eventually bring him back to Maria's gondola. He lay cold, and decidedly uncomfortable, on the duckboards under the tarp. The tarp smelled of old spilled wine--probably from the barrels she sometimes transported. The wait seemed interminable.

He tried thinking about Angelina. But the thoughts were just frustrating. He still hadn't got up the courage to speak to her, and doubted he ever would. Angelina Dorma. Case Vecchie. Miles above his touch now.

But . . . oh, so beautiful.

The water-door banged. Moments later, the gondola rocked as someone stepped aboard. It had to be Maria. No one else whistled quite like that. She didn't say a word to him as she cast off and began to scull. They were out in the open water, judging by the rising and falling of the deck beneath him, before she said: "You can probably stick your face out, if you want a breath of air."

Marco did. The air was indeed wreathed with fog. Well, that much Caesare had predicted right. Hopefully, the rest would go well also. "Where are we?" he asked.

"On our way across to Murano. We should be there soon after the Marangona starts to ring. This fog'll hold a while yet. You should be able to get off nicely hidden by it. By the time we get back it'll have burned off though." Maria grinned sardonically down at him. "Then you'll have to run instead of lying flat on your back while I work."

In the distance the Marangona bell began to ring, calling the Arsenalotti to work. Two minutes later, Marco was clinging to the rotting bricks on the damp underside of the bridge. Nervously, he waited. Then, without anyone seeing him, he climbed out and made his way to the glassware factory.

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."

The priest's nod was as shaky as his whispering voice. "Yes, yes, of course. It's just--I can't remember much. It was dark and--very confusing. And . . . and I was very frightened. Confused myself."

Dorma gave the shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You handled yourself as well as any man could have, under the circumstances. Just tell me what you can, Father."

Visibly trying to bring himself under control, the priest took several deep and slow breaths. Then:

"It was very late at night. Near dawn, in fact. I had been spending the night with Luigi--the linen merchant--sitting up with him and . . . talking, mostly. I was worried about him. Since the death of his wife, he has been very unhappy. I've been concerned that he might even be starting to think of suicide."

The priest paused for another deep breath. "We heard a noise. Downstairs, in the shop. Nothing loud. In fact, I didn't hear it at all. But Luigi had a shopkeeper's sensitivity to such things, of course. So he excused himself and went down the stairs, carrying a candle."

Again, the priest paused. For much longer, this time. Clearly, now that his tale was approaching the moment of horror, he was reluctant to continue.

Petro made no effort to hurry him along. He took advantage of the delay to review in his mind everything he had seen in the shop. And was struck again--as he had been at the scene of the financier's murder--at yet another contradictory fact. The same creature that slew in such an incredibly excessive manner was also quite capable of delicate work. The financier's mansion had been entered in so sure and subtle a manner that the Schiopettieri were still uncertain as to the murderer's exact route of entry. And if the entry to the linen seller's shop was obvious, the lock on the front door had been skillfully picked, not broken. Dorma suspected that the only reason the shopkeeper had heard anything was because he had been wide awake and, as often happened with elderly merchants, had become extraordinarily sensitive to the risk of burglary.

The priest was ready to continue. "Then I heard a scream," he rushed on. "Luigi's voice. I raced down the stairs. Through the kitchen. By the time I got to the front room . . ." He gasped, a moment. "It was horrible. Luigi was being held by--something. I couldn't see it clearly. He must have dropped the candle, so there was no light in the shop. Only what little light came through the open door from outside. Not much, because sunrise was--only still coming. Everything was dark, dark. Horrible."

"Was it a man?"

"I don't think so, Lord Dorma. If it was, it was a huge and misshapen one. But--no! It couldn't have been a man! I saw a tail--I swear! I remember that! And--then, when it must have heard me entering--I was probably shouting myself, I don't remember clearly--but I know I was holding up my cross and calling on the Virgin--"

The priest's voice was starting to rise hysterically. Dorma calmed him with gentle pressure on the shoulders, kneading the old cleric's thin bones and flesh with his hands. After a moment, the priest continued, his voice now dull and leaden.

"It flung poor Luigi at me and fled from the shop. I saw--something like suckers on its arm. Like an octopus, except it was more like a man's arm--huge one--than a tentacle. Then it was gone, racing out the door. I saw the tip of a tail. Like a reptile's, of some kind. No more." He shuddered. "Please, Lord Dorma. No more."

Dorma nodded, gave the priest's shoulders a last little reassuring squeeze, and straightened up. "Enough, Father. Get some rest."

On the way out of the church, he had a few words with the Schiopettieri captain. "See to it that a guard is maintained here at night, for the next few weeks. I don't expect there'll be any . . . trouble. The fiend doesn't seem to have returned to any of its other crimes. But--"

Ernesto nodded. "The priest is the only eyewitness. And the only one who interrupted the--whatever it is--before it finished. I'll see to it, Lord Dorma."

* * *

Later that day, after hearing Lord Dorma's report, the Metropolitan of Venice summoned the special envoy from the Grand Metropolitan of Rome to a private audience, in a secluded room in the cathedral.

Metropolitan Michael was becoming more than a little impatient with the envoy, so he did not preface his first words with the usual phrases of polite greeting.

"How much longer?" he demanded. "By the Saints, man, you should at least meet with Petro Dorma. He could be of great assistance to you."

The envoy shook his head firmly. Metropolitan Michael almost hissed with displeasure. The Grand Metropolitan's envoy did everything firmly, it seemed. He even managed to limp firmly, somehow.

"And why not?"

The envoy frowned. Firmly, of course. "I still do not know the identity of the evil, Your Eminence. The source of it, yes. It comes from Lithuania, like most of the world's demonry. But I still haven't determined the channels, or the conduits--not all of them, at least--nor, most important of all, its ultimate purpose. For all I know, Petro Dorma himself is entwined in these plots."

The Metropolitan threw up his hands with exasperation. "That's absurd! You might as well consider me a suspect!"

The Grand Metropolitan's envoy studied the Metropolitan calmly, saying nothing in response. As if he were examining him. After a moment, realizing the man was immovable, Michael sighed.

Even the man's eyebrows annoyed him. They, too, were firm. It, rather. Like a solid bar of rusty iron above implacable eyes.

Chapter 29 ==========

Eventually, the punishment ceased. The monster lay on its side, its flanks heaving, still trying to beg for mercy. The effort was pointless, since Chernobog had crushed its throat. But the monster knew from experience that so long as it was in the strange, gray-mist casket-world, its wounds would heal quickly. Any wounds, even mortal ones--and it wanted to be pleading for forgiveness as soon as any word at all could issue from its throat. Else Chernobog might renew the chastisement.

In the end, the monster's fears proved groundless. By the time the first croaking words issued from its healing throat--quavering with pain, those words, since healing was almost as painful as punishment--the master's rage had subsided. Chernobog was deep into cold contemplation. The monster could sense his dark form in the surrounding mist, hunched with thought.

Be silent, beast. Lest I return you to the place from which you came.

The thought brought a fierce yearning to the monster. To roam free again--!

But the urge was fleeting. Chernobog possessed the monster's soul, still. The monster had no illusions that the master would return it--nor that it would be cast back into its homeland uninjured. Chernobog would surely rend the monster before he set it free. And, outside of the casket-world, mortal wounds were genuinely mortal. The monster would simply bleed to death, disemboweled in a forest, leaving its soul to be chewed by Chernobog for eternity.

Besides . . .

The pain was receding now, as it always did. And the monster was able to remember the pleasures as well as the agonies of serving Chernobog. It would feed again, soon enough. That knowledge brought relief--relief from frustration, this time, not pain. The monster had not been able to devour the prey's soul because of that cursed priest. It was hungry.

Eventually, Chernobog ceased his ruminations. The monster could sense the dark form shifting somewhere in the surrounding grayness. As if some huge beast, roused from torpor, were stirring again.

It will have to be the burning again. At least for a time. I cannot risk another premature encounter. Especially not now, with the Shadow stirring in slumber.

The monster had to struggle not to cry out a protest. It was, in the end, a creature of the forest and the lakes and the mountains, who much preferred the corporeal rending of flesh in its beast-form to less fleshly methods. But the struggle was brief, very brief. There was a certain pleasure in burning also. More ethereal perhaps, but not without its own rewards.

Yes. The burning again. And soon. The monster sensed Chernobog's form seething with anger, but knew the anger was directed elsewhere.

Lest my enemies think a mere priest, with a common holy symbol, can bring them surcease. Their growing terror must be fanned, like flames in a forest, until all of the city burns.

Yes. The burning, again.

The monster's wounds were almost completely healed by now. Enough, certainly, to enable it to utter words of obeisance and submission. And if the tone of those words contained a trace of regret, there was not enough to reawaken the master's displeasure.

Again, the monster sensed the great form swirling, a darkness in the mist, as if an enormous arm was moving in a gesture of command. In an instant, its body began to shrivel and shrink. Soon enough, the beast-body with its talons and teeth and clawing suckers had vanished, replaced by something which bore a vague resemblance to a salamander.

As always, the monster's regrets vanished with the change of form. There was no room in that salamanderlike body for anything but salamander thoughts.

Burning soon. Hungry!

PART III December, 1537 A.D. ======================================

Chapter 30 ==========

The Old Fox smiled. "Angelina Dorma. Well, well, well! How serious do you think it is, Antimo?"

The Duke of Ferrara's agent considered this silently. Finally he said, "Angelina Dorma is a young woman of some beauty and absolutely no common sense. Your grandson Marco is besotted with her--to the point of foolishness. Angelina has bragged about her 'secret admirer' to several confidantes both inside and outside the Casa. It was easy enough for my spies in the household to get wind of it, to see young Marco and to track him. This was done as part of our ongoing research into Casa Dorma, milord, not with our agent being aware of whom he was tracking."

The Old Fox raised an eyebrow. "We were all young and foolish about women once, weren't we?"

Antimo Bartelozzi didn't respond with a smile. "Foolishness gets people killed, milord. And Dorma is very protective about his family."

The duke pulled a wry face. "His weakness is his family, Antimo. His mother and sister can be used against him. It's been a factor which has held me back in my approaches to him, despite his many impressive qualities. And as for the foolishness, those it doesn't kill--learn. So, I want Dorma watched closely. I see possible alliances here as well as possible dangers. And it is conceivable my foolish grandson may have found a way to remove one loose cannon from the Casa Dorma, and tie it down."

Antimo nodded.

The duke put a hand to his chin and looked speculative. "Given the current positions of the major factions in Venice--how do you assess Petro Dorma's strength?" He waited patiently for the reply he knew Antimo would eventually formulate. Privately he regarded Antimo Bartelozzi as his personal version of the mills of God. The agent ground slowly--but he ground very, very fine.

"Well--superficially his faction is the smallest, the weakest, and the most diverse and divided. Petro is very able, but he is not charismatic. He lacks the flamboyance and panache of Ricardo Brunelli, for instance."

The Old Fox looked at him through half-lidded eyes. The languor might have fooled a lesser man. "Ah. But you think there are other factors to be considered?"

"Yes." The agent smiled wryly. "Should circumstances prompt either the Metropolitan or Montagnard factions to lose support in Venice . . . that support may easily go to Dorma. He has long been seen as the firmest advocate of a centrist, neutral stance. His party's weakness is its diversity. But, as a broad church, it offers space to former adherents of both the other parties--the softer ones, if not the fanatics. And Venice's people--though they might lean Montagnard or Metropolitan with the blowing of the factional winds--have a strong tradition of independence. Like a heavy keel to a ship. That is Dorma's central creed. If either Rome or the Empire truly threaten Venice, I think its populace--and most of its senators--will remember that heritage. While Dorma has the smallest support base, and is not flamboyant like Brunelli, he is respected. You can find very few people who dislike him. And he has a reputation for hard, meticulous, scrupulously fair work--as you know."

The Old Fox gave a smile that, had he really been his four-footed namesake, would have sent every peasant farmer who saw it off to sleep--uneasily, with their boarspear and their dog--inside their henhouse.

"That's all shaping up nicely, then. And now that Baron Trolliger has arrived . . ."

Antimo's smile almost matched that of his master. "It's such a pleasure to have a capable Emperor sitting on the throne in Mainz."

"Is it not?" agreed the duke cheerfully. "Hohenstauffens of the past, more often than not, would have already been planting their great clumsy boots on the Brenner Pass. But Charles Fredrik is almost an Italian, the way he thinks. I assume he's offering us money, not soldiers?"

"Baron Trolliger hasn't been specific yet. He only arrived yesterday, after all. I doubt he will be, milord, until you meet with him personally. But those are the signs, yes. The Emperor, clearly enough, wants a proxy army here in northern Italy--just in case the situation in Venice proves to be as dangerous as he and we both think it is. And he's more than smart enough to see that Ferrara--little, innocuous Ferrara--is the logical choice."

Antimo's smile grew very wry. "Baron Trolliger's praise for the honor of Dell'este--as well as the cunning of the 'Old Fox'--has been most, ah, fulsome."

"As it should be!" chuckled the duke. "I've spent a lifetime developing that reputation, after all. Send the man in for a private audience, then, as soon as he's ready. Is he still cleaning his boots?"

"Probably," replied Antimo. "There's a man who genuinely hates to travel. His curses on that subject were almost as fulsome as his praise for Dell'este. And, I'm sure, quite a bit more heartfelt."

"There's no rush. Negotiations will be lengthy, in any event. I intend to squeeze as much money as I possibly can from the Empire. Charles Fredrik can certainly afford it."

Antimo nodded. "And what about Marco? Do you wish me to take any steps?"

The Old Fox raised an eyebrow. "No. Let him alone. Perhaps practice will improve his poetry."

Chapter 31 ==========

Lies.

That was what his whole life had become, over the last few weeks. Lies and evasions and dirty little twistings of what scraps of truth he had told--

Marco's gut ached like someone had punched it, hard. It had ached like that for days. His throat was so choked most of the time he could hardly swallow. And his heart--if it wasn't broken, it was doing a damn good imitation of being broken.

Marco Valdosta, he who called himself Marco "Felluci" these days, had good reason not to own to the Case Vecchie family he'd been born into. His Ferrarese mother had made sure of that with her fanatical Montagnard beliefs, and the long-buried secrets that went with what she had done to further the cause.

Still . . . this wasn't why he felt as if he must be one of the most pitiable sixteen-year-olds in all of Venice. He was looking miserable enough for Benito's friend Claudia to comment on it. Claudia had told him to his face that he was drooping like a four-day-old leftover bunch of finocchio leaves, and had wanted to know the reason. He hadn't dared tell her. He hadn't dared tell anyone.

Although he really didn't intend to be that way, his disposition wavered between sullen and terrified. He spent most of his time moping around like a moon-sick idiot. His brother had given up on him in disgust; Maria Garavelli and Caesare Aldanto only knew he was pining over a girl and being unusually peculiar about it.

Caesare was being more than patient, he was being condescending--which Marco was overly sensitive to just now. Maria, having failed to jolly him out of it, had taken to snapping at him frequently. They repeated the same scene at least twice a day. It usually started with him glooming about in her path, and Maria stumbling around him, until she finally lost her temper--

Then she'd explode, canaler's cap shoved back on her dark hair, strong hands on hips, dark eyes narrowed with annoyed frustration--

"Dammit Marco, can't you get the hell out of my way?"

Even the memory made him wince.

She snapped, he sulked, they both got resentful, and Caesare sighed.

The problem was they didn't know the half of what he'd gotten into.

Marco, who was just home from work at Ventuccio's booth on the Piazza San Marco, huddled in a soft plush-covered chair in Aldanto's living room. He had lit one lamp, on the right side of the window tonight--that was to tell Maria that all was well--but had left the rest of the room in gray gloom. He was curled around the knot of anguish that seemed to have settled into his gut for good. Every time he looked up, the very room seemed to breathe reproach at him.

There was frost on the window--bitter cold it was out there. Here he was, warm and dry and eating good--he could have been out in the Jesolo marshes, freezing his butt off, but he wasn't, thanks to Caesare Aldanto. He could have been shivering in Benito's attic, or in their little barren apartment in Cannaregio--hell he could have been dead, but he wasn't, again thanks to Aldanto.

Caesare had taken him and Benito under his protection. He had protected them and then taken them into his own home. He'd been feeding them and housing them and keeping them safe because the town was in a turmoil and that was the only way he could be certain they were safe. And now Marco had gone and compromised the whole damned setup and compromised Caesare himself.

Maria was right. He was an ingrate.

He was more miserable than he'd ever been in his life; more miserable than the time he'd hidden out in the marshes, because that had only been physical misery--more miserable than when his mother had been killed, because that was a clean-cut loss. This--this tangle of lies and half-truths he'd woven into a trap binding him and Aldanto--this mess had him so turned inside-out--that it was a wonder he even remembered what day it was.

Oh, Angelina, he thought mournfully, if only I'd never seen you.

It had seemed so innocent, sending that love poem to Angelina Dorma. She wouldn't know who had sent it, so what harm could possibly come of it? But Angelina had assumed it had come from Aldanto, because she was in love with Caesare. Not surprising, that. Caesare Aldanto was a man, not a lovesick boy. Caesare Aldanto was urbane and sophisticated and, to top it off, tall, golden-haired--in a city full of short, dark folk--and as handsome as a sculpture of Apollo. No girl would think twice about Marco with Caesare Aldanto in the same city. Marco didn't blame Angela--and truth to tell, he hadn't really expected her to respond to the poems so strongly.

But she had; and she had come to her own conclusions about them. She'd caught Marco delivering a third love-poem. She'd got him so twisted around with the way she'd acted towards him that all he could think about was that she'd guessed about his own passion and she was being Case Vecchie and coy. He'd been so bemused he hadn't left her until long after dark . . .

Caesare--still recovering from the fever--Maria and Benito had all been in a fine case over him by then, worrying that he'd been caught by Montagnards, caught and maybe been tortured or killed.

But he was so full of Angelina and how she'd guessed at the identity of the author of the poems, and sought him out, that all he could feel was resentment that they were hovering over him so much.

It was only after he'd read her note--then reread it and reread it--that he realized that she'd guessed wrong. She'd figured that the author was Caesare, and he was the errand-boy. And she'd set him such a tempting little trap, too--offered to have Dorma sponsor and fund him into the Accademia, and make his dream of becoming a doctor come true, so that he could be conveniently close to deliver more such messages. So tempting; he could at least see and talk to her, any time he wanted. He could also have his other dream--all he needed to do was to keep up the lie, to keep writing those poems and pretending Caesare was sending them. That was all. Just as simple as Original Sin and just as seductive.

And now he was afraid to tell Caesare, because he'd been such a fool, and worse, got them tangled up with a romantic Case Vecchie girl, one with power and connections. He was afraid to tell Maria because--because she was Maria. She was capable and clever and she'd laugh him into a little puddle of mortification and then she'd kill him, if Caesare didn't beat her to it. And he couldn't tell Benito. Benito was put out enough over the notion of his brother taking a sudden interest in girls--"going stupid on him" was what Benito had said.

Hell, he'd gone stupid all right. So stupid he couldn't see his way straight anymore. And that was dangerous for him, and for all of them, with the town in a dither over the magical killings.

Marco himself was sure that the killings were Montagnard work, not "magical" in the least. Sure as death and taxes; and Caesare was ex-Montagnard and knew too damned many Montagnard secrets. For that matter so did Marco.

And the city was simmering with suspicions. He, Marco, might be sure the wicked Viscontis were moving again. But if you got three people together you got eight opinions. Strega or Jews were the most common suspects, of course, but the Council of Ten and the agents of Rome were accused too. Of course there was no certainty who might or might not be in one of the factions, so opinions were voiced very carefully.

Complications were not what Caesare needed right now. Yet "complications" were exactly what Marco knew he'd gotten them into. And this left him unable to tell the truth. Because the truth hurt so damn much, and he couldn't force it past the lump in his throat and the ache in his gut.

But he had to tell somebody; had to get some good advice before what was already worse became disastrous. He could reason out that much. Somebody older, but not too much older; somebody with experience with nobility. Somebody who knew how girls thought, wild and romantic Case Vecchie girls in particular.

A face swam into his mind, surrounded with a faint shimmer of hope, almost like a halo.

Rafael--Rafael might help him to think straight again. Rafael de Tomaso was a student. He was, Lord knew, smarter than Marco was--and a little older, more experienced. He dealt with Case Vecchie families all the time in the form of his fellow students. And he was old enough to know how to handle girls. Maybe even how to handle angry girls.

Yes. He'd be willing to give advice. He was the right person to see.

Marco made up his mind to go and find Rafael right then and there, before he got faint-hearted again.

He jumped up out of the chair and padded across the soft carpet to the bottom of the stairway, listening carefully at the foot of the stair for the faint sounds of Aldanto dozing in the bedroom above. Caesare had been sleeping a lot the past couple of weeks, since Brunelli wasn't using him much lately . . . although Marco was beginning to realize that Caesare Aldanto had plenty of other irons in the fire.

Poor Caesare. Damn near everyone's hand was against him now--or would be if they knew what he was. And now one of the kids he'd taken in had gone and messed up his life even more, and he didn't even guess the danger that kid had put him in. Marco felt like a total traitor.

Benito was in the spare bedroom downstairs, sprawled on his back half-draped across the foot of the bed and upside down, trying to puzzle his way through one of Marco's books and making heavy work of it. This one had illustrations, though, which was probably what was keeping Benito's attention.

He writhed around at Marco's soft footfall.

"I've got to go out; an hour maybe. I'll be back by dark, si?"

"Why?" Benito's dark face looked sullen; rebellious. Not only was he mad about Marco getting mixed up with girls, but Marco had had it out with him over obeying Caesare and treating him with respect. Benito had been smart-mouthed and Marco had finally backed the boy up against the wall and threatened honest-to-God serious mayhem if Benito didn't shape up. Benito was still smoldering with resentment, and Marco still wasn't sure the lecture had taken.

"I've got to see Rafael. I've got to take some of Sophia's herbs for him. One she says will give him a deeper red than madder root. I promised him some and I've never taken them."

Benito's expression cleared. He nodded and his brown eyes got friendly again, because it wasn't a girl that was taking Marco out, and it wasn't one of Aldanto's errands. "Si. Reckon he can make something off them?"

"Probably, what with all the painters at the Accademia. He isn't much better off than we are, you know? He deserves a break."

"Just you best be back by dark," Benito admonished, shaking a tangle of brown hair out of his eyes only to have it fall back in again. "Or Maria'll have the skin off you."

Talk about pot calling kettle! Marco bit back a retort. He dug a bundle of herbs out of the box under the bed, noting wryly that Benito was far more respectful of Maria than Caesare, even now, after all Marco had told him. One of these days Benito was going to push Caesare Aldanto too far, and his awakening would be abrupt and rude. And probably involve any number of bruises.

"I'll be back," he promised, shoving the packets into his pack, huddling on his cotte and shrugging the pack strap over his shoulder. "And probably before Maria is in."

He slipped into the dark hallway, walking quietly out of habit, and eased the front door open so as not to wake Caesare. The last rays of the evening sun were not quite able to penetrate the clouds, and Venice of the bridges and waterways looked bleak, shabby and ill-used. There was snow coming to the Alps. Marco could smell it in the air and shivered inside his woolen shirt and canvas cloak. The grayed-out gloomy bleakness suited Marco down to his toenails and it was just dark enough that if he kept his head down and muffled in his scarf, it was unlikely he would be recognized. Foot traffic was light; what with the bitter wind blowing, anybody with cash was hiring gondolas even this early in the evening. That suited him too.

He'd almost made it down the water-stairs when somebody called his name. Recognizing the voice, he swore to himself, but stopped on the steps above the landing. Rowing to his night tie-up was Tonio della Sendoro--and clinging to Tonio's prow was a kid.

Marco sighed and padded down the last three stairs to wait for Tonio to toss him a cold, stiff line.

"Ciao, Tonio," he greeted the canaler, once he'd gotten the gondola tied. "Got another one for me?"

Tonio nodded, his face a comical mixture of relief and reluctance. "Her Papa says her ear hurts--she's been crying since yesterday and he can't get her to stop. Her name's Leonora."

No last name. Not that Marco was surprised. He rather doubted that Tonio was even telling the parents exactly who he was taking their sick kids to. They probably suspected Strega. That would be bad enough. But to take them to see one of Maria Garavelli's pet bridge-boys, who were probably thieves, or something worse, and were definitely going to come to no good end? The idea would have appalled them. They would have laughed at Tonio for the very suggestion.

The ragged little girl huddled on Tonio's halfdeck was still crying; the kind of monotonous half-exhausted sobbing that tore Marco's heart right out of his chest. He eased down onto the gondola in the over-cautious fashion of one not very used to being on a small boat, then slid along the worn boards and crouched beside her so that his face was level with hers.

"Come here, little one." He held out hand coaxingly. "It's all right, Leonora. I'm going to make it better."

She stopped crying, stared at him for a minute, then sidled over to him and didn't resist when he gathered her into his arms, trying to warm that thin little body with his own. Children trusted him. So did dogs.

He murmured nonsense at her while he gently felt along the line of her jaw and checked for fever. Relief washed over him when he found neither a swollen gland nor a temperature elevated beyond what he would expect in a kid who'd been crying in pain for a day or more. With every kid brought to him, he expected to find one too sick for his knowledge or experience to help. Then what would he do?

Ah, he knew what he would do. Tell Tonio the child needed real help--and if the parents couldn't afford it, tell him about Claudia and her Strega healer. And let the parents decide whether it was worth the risk of having Strega strings attached to their child's soul.

Or maybe kidnap the child and take it there himself, and take the damnation onto his own soul . . .

This one--like all the others so far, thank God--was an easy one. Infection. A scratch just inside the little ear gone septic. He went back up to his rooms and fetched some dead-nettle tea. He mixed it with a little of Tonio's grappa, poured into a spoon and heated it to just-bearable over Tonio's little boat stove. This he poured into Leonora's ear. She cried out briefly, but then was still. Then he heated a small pot of dead-nettle tea, along with a pinch of aromatic pine resin, scrounged from the timberyard.

He gave her a pebble. "Now, honey, you suck on this pebble, and sniff that steam up." Her nose was a bit stuffy, but the inhalation would clear that if he was right. The ear would drain and the pain would suddenly go. He and Tonio watched.

He could see it in her face--the sheer wonder of the moment when the pain went away. Looking at him like he was an angel. He blushed and his heart melted a bit more.

"Now," he said softly and mock-sternly, "you have to promise me something. When the wind blows and it's cold, you will keep your scarf tied around your ears good and tight, you hear? Otherwise your ear'll start to hurt again."

The tiny girl gazed at him from eyes so big they seemed to take up half of her tear-streaked face. "Don't got no scarf," she protested.

He sighed again, and reached under his coat collar to pull yet another of Benito's "souvenirs" off his own neck. That was the fourth one used so far--two gone for bandages and one as a sling. Benito must surely think he was eating the damned things--it was a good thing they weren't the silk ones Benito liked to sport; his brother would have strangled him in his sleep.

He tied the scarf under her chin, making sure both ears were covered. "Now you have. Promise?"

She nodded, then unexpectedly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him messily. He hugged her back, and she squirmed out of his grasp to go and crouch at Tonio's feet. He knew he was still blushing a little, but he was feeling better than he had all day, kind of warm inside. She was a little sweetie--a lot nicer than the last one, who'd kicked him. He got gingerly to his knees and edged carefully off the pitching boat onto solid land, tucking his chilled hands under his arms as soon as he got there.

Tonio cleared his throat, and Marco knew what was coming next.

"Dammit Tonio, I've said I won't take anything about a hundred times--and I damn sure won't take anything this time either. You folks haven't any more to spare than I do, and I haven't done a damn thing this kid's papa couldn't have done if he knew how!"

"But he didn't, did he--"

"So you tell him and he will." Marco set his chin stubbornly. "And don't you go bleating debts or imperiled souls at me either. There is nothing magical about this, and by the Lion of Saint Mark, even if there was, then surely Christ himself would have blessed it. He said 'Let the children come to me,' after all. I don't believe in counting favors. I do what I can. Let the accounting be set in God's hands."

"That's true enough, may be--" Tonio replied, just as stubbornly, "--but this baby's papa does believe in the payment of debts. He may be poor, but he's proud and honest."

That just about described all the boatmen, caulkers and fishermen of Venice. Only the rich and the rogues had other standards. "Oh, hell--" Marco sighed, pulled the rope loose, and stood up holding it in both hands, braced against the tug of the sluggish water and the icy wind on the boat. "All right, I tell you what. If you people are so worried about debt, here's what you do. When there's a few lira to spare, have the people I've helped put it in some kind of common pot against the day when I can't help one of these children and they need a real chirurgeon. I suppose you might as well hold the pot, Tonio, since you're always the one bringing them here. If they do that, I figure we're even. Si?" That should solve two problems--theirs and his.

Tonio's face still looked stormy, but he must have reckoned that that was the only concession he was going to get out of Marco. "Si," he agreed, after a long moment of stubborn silence.

He signaled to Marco to toss back the rope and poled back out into the current.

Marco headed back along the walkway, resuming his interrupted journey. His leather-soled boots made no sound on the damp wood as he kept to a warming trot. No bare feet in this weather, not for him or Benito--Aldanto had bought them boots when he caught them without foot-coverings. Another undeserved kindness.

Sounds were few above the wind; the occasional murmur of voices from above, the slap of waves on boats and buildings, the ever-present creaking of wood, canalers calling out to each other down on the water. Cold--God, it was cold. Weather for sickness, that's for certain; in the swamp, down on the canals, weather for dying, too. Winter would be bad this year, he thought.

Funny, this business with Tonio della Sendoro. It had started when Marco caught Rafael de Tomaso with a cut hand going septic and forced him to let Marco clean it out. Then de Tomaso had brought him a child with a bad case of the fever. Then Tonio had gotten into the act. Always children, though, never adults. Eleven, no, twelve of them so far. Marco couldn't resist a sick child--not even when they kicked or bit.

Soft heart to match my soft head.

No matter. Marco knew damned well he could no more see a child in pain and walk on, without doing something about it, than he could stop breathing.

Well, one thing for sure, no matter how badly he'd messed things up with Caesare Aldanto, there were a dozen poor boat-people or fisher-folk babies he'd made a bit healthier.

* * *

From across the Canale di Cannaregio, on the Ghetto side, the three priests watched the boy trotting away. Then, their eyes followed the gondola as it made its way up the Canale and turned into a smaller canal which entered the heart of the Cannaregio sector of the city.

"That boy has become a bit of a blessing for this poor neighborhood," said Diego approvingly. "That's at least the seventh child I know of that he's given medical attention."

"Nine," grunted Pierre. "That I know of. Good treatment, too, by all accounts."

Eneko's expression was grim; not sharing any of the approval so evident in the faces of his companions. "He's also the same boy who brought that message to me from Caesare Aldanto. That despicable offer I told you about."

Pierre and Diego's eyes widened. "Aldanto?" choked Pierre. "Are you certain?" asked Diego.

Eneko nodded. "Quite certain. I was struck at the time, by the incongruity. Between the villainy of Aldanto and the boy's own face--the face of an angel, almost."

"But . . ." Pierre lapsed into silence, for a moment. Then: "I don't believe Aldanto is guilty of black magic, true enough. But I don't doubt he's guilty of almost any other crime. Treacherous to the core, by all accounts. A pure mercenary." He pointed a finger toward the distance into which the boy had disappeared. "Whereas he . . . He refuses to accept any payment, Eneko. I've spoken to that canaler myself. Tonio is his name."

"It just doesn't make sense," added Diego, shaking his head.

"No, it doesn't," mused Eneko. "Which is precisely what interests me the most. Why is such a boy working for such a man? Or--perhaps more important--why has such a man taken such a boy under his wing?" He cocked his head at his two companions. "Aldanto is indeed, as Pierre said, 'a pure mercenary.' So what is his mercenary reason in this instance?"

His two companions looked at each other. Pierre shrugged; Diego sighed. "I suppose this means you want me to investigate something else."

Eneko chuckled. "I don't think it will be as bad as all that, Diego. If the boy is a healer--" Eneko pointed across the canal at the Cannaregio district. "You've met Father Mascoli. I introduced you to him just a few weeks ago. Ask him first. If the boy is as well known in this area as all that, as a lay doctor, Mascoli will know who he is."

"The Cannaregio," muttered the Castillian. "The Ghetto's reputation is bad, but overrated. There are other places in Cannaregio whose reputation is . . . not."

"I'll protect you," said Pierre stoutly. "From sin, of course. Footpads--you're on your own."

Eneko clucked. "The only danger you'll face in the Cannaregio is from cutpurses. And since neither of you has a purse . . ."

He ignored the glares coming his way. Insouciantly: "Righteousness, brothers. Always the best armor."

Chapter 32 ==========

Marco made good time across to Dorsoduro; he'd have at least an hour with Rafael before he had to head back. He was glad to get there; the overcast had given birth to flurries of cold rain, and his nose felt numb.

If Rafael was there--

The Al Caraveillo tavern was the likeliest spot to find him; Marco poked his head in the door and got hit in the face with the light and the noise. It was almost as bad as a physical blow after the chill gray of the canalside. It took him a moment to adjust to it.

But when he finally did, he breathed a prayer of thanks to the Saints--for at a table in the rear, book propped up in front of him and huge orange cat spread out like a rug on his lap, was a tall, thin dark-haired young man wearing an Accademia cotte.

* * *

"--so that's the whole mess," Marco concluded miserably. He slumped on his hard wooden chair, staring at his own clenched hands, surrounded by the clutter of artwork, books, and other paraphernalia of a student and artist's life that filled the tiny room that made up Rafael's lodgings. The lanky student across from him lounged on his unmade bed, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

Marco had laid out the whole story--saving only Aldanto's exact identity and what he was involved with. Rafael de Tomaso had simply been told that Aldanto was a man with enemies--a lot of enemies. That was enough for Rafael to add into his calculations, without his knowing enough for the information to be a danger to Caesare. At least de Tomaso hadn't laughed at him.

"You've got yourself a problem, all right," Rafael said finally, putting his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling. "A bad one. The Dormas are rising in influence; rising fast, from what I hear. I'm almost certain that Petro Dorma is in the Council of Ten already. From the little I know, Angelina Dorma would be a very bad enemy for your friend to have. And if you go through with this charade, she'll find out eventually. When she does she will want his hide as much as yours. Her older brother Petro's a calm one, sure. Still, it is a family thing--and, like I said, Council of Ten. A Lord of the Nightwatch, for sure."

"I figured," Marco replied dismally.

"You weren't planning on trying to carry it off, were you?'

"For about five minutes, maybe," Marco admitted. "After that--dammit, Rafael, it isn't right, that's all I can say. It isn't fair, even if I could make it work."

Rafael de Tomaso smiled; a kindly smile, as if he were giving Marco credit for honesty. "How much of your hide are you willing to part with?"

The lump rose in Marco's throat, nearly choking his words. "All of it," he said at last. "She's going to hate me forever, no matter what happens. If there's a way to keep my friend out of it, I'll take it and take my lumps."

"You got some place you could go to get out of sight for a couple of weeks? Long enough to let things cool down?"

Marco thought, as best he could. Not Aldanto's place. Not the apartment in Cannaregio that he and Benito had shared; that would be the first place a searcher would look. Claudia and Valentina?

They'd take him in--no doubt of it. But Claudia was a Strega and a thief on top of that--Benito had confirmed that, all of it. The two singers had been Benito's protectors and mentors in his early days on his own, Claudia more than Valentina, but he knew most of what there was to know about both of them. Claudia had been "courting" Marco ever since she'd found out he wanted to be a doctor, dangling a secret Strega-run healer school in front of him. He was mightily afraid that his resolution not to get involved with any more religious or factional fanatics would crumble under the slightest pressure at this point. It would be such a logical move; cut ties to Caesare, get under the protection of somebody else, drop out of sight--and get his dream into the bargain.

So easy . . .

No! He wouldn't even think about it. "Easy" usually had strings attached that wouldn't show up until later. And what if the Strega used him to get at Caesare or Benito--or Maria and her boatmen friends?

The Jesolo marshes? Back into the muddy velme and hide in barene?

He gave that one a second thought and then a third. Maybe not such a bad notion. He could move a hide into old Gianni's territory, it might still be open with Gianni dead by Marco's knife. Even if it wasn't, no marsh-locos would fool with the man who'd killed Gianni. They'd leave him alone, maybe clear out altogether themselves. There were a fair number of food plants there, and some good fishing spots. It was cold, sure; but he could take blankets and medicine out with him. He could tough it out for two weeks or so. Maybe getting back to the basics of surviving would clear out his head.

"I think maybe I got a place," he answered Rafael slowly. "Why?"

"I think if I were you, this is what I'd do--and first thing is, you aren't going tell anybody anything; you're going to write to them--"

* * *

It was almost dawn. Benito was so dead asleep he didn't even stir when Marco slipped out of bed. Marco hadn't slept more than a few minutes all night, lying there in the bed with every muscle so tight with nerves that they were ready to cramp. He dressed quickly in the dark, putting on every bit of clothing he possessed here; not daring to light a lamp lest he wake Benito. His pack was back in the Cannaregio apartment, already made up with the clothing he'd left there and the blankets from that bed.

There were other things there, too; things he'd bought--a spare knife, a tinderbox, fishhooks and line, and lures. He'd been afraid to bring the pack here, lest somebody catch him at it and try to stop him.

The Jesolo marshes had been a really good notion--except that he hadn't any money to buy the gear he needed to survive. In the end he'd had to get back to their apartment in Cannaregio, retrieve his precious books--and sell them. He'd already spent all the money he had saved on the goods he'd traded with Sophia for herbs to treat Caesare's fever. His books were all he had left in the way of portable wealth. It had damn near broken his heart all over again to part with them. But this was his only choice. He couldn't live for weeks out there without supplies and cold-weather gear, not in wintertime. He knew that Chiano and Sophia would have stripped his hideout of everything useful once they were certain he wasn't likely to be coming back to the marsh.

And maybe he'd have to stay out there for longer than a couple of weeks. The more he'd thought about it last night, the more logical that seemed. He'd just about talked himself into staying out there--unless his plan worked; the other plan he'd thought of, lying in the dark last night--

Now he crept to the spare room, one careful, hushed step at a time. He had to get into Aldanto's medicine-chest for the last of what he needed.

He hated to steal, but he wasn't sure Sophia had been able to collect any more artemisia in the marshes, even if he'd had the money to pay for it, and Aldanto had enough to cure a dozen fevers--or to kill four men. Marco was glad there was a night-lamp left burning in the room, else he'd probably have broken something and roused the whole house. The herb was right out in front, in neat twists of paper. Marco knew exactly how many there were, since he'd weighed and made the twists himself. It was, he supposed, something he'd traded for. Still, Marco took half of them; neither Aldanto nor Maria was likely to need it, and Marco might very well before the winter was over. If the fever got him, he'd need it for sure. He stuffed the packets into his pocket, and stole out.

Now he crept quietly into the kitchen; ran his hands along the shelf until he found the old bread and a bit of cheese, then found the round, hard bulk of the wine carafe the same way. First thing that Aldanto did when he wandered downstairs in the morning was to take some watered wine, so that was where Marco's letter to him would go.

* * *

Dear Caesare; I am a Bigger Fool than you ever thought I was. I've gone and got Both of us into Trouble, it began, and went on from there. It had been a torture to write, and Marco wasn't entirely clear on what he'd put down. He'd fought down the ache in his gut and the swelling in his throat all through writing it, so it wasn't exactly a miracle of coherency. But it did lay out the whole sordid story, and finished by telling Caesare not to go looking for him. He rather doubted Caesare would want to waste the time looking for such a fool as he was, but--better assure him that Marco was going to be hidden where nobody was likely to be able to find him.

Maria's letter was shorter by about three pages; that was going to her cubbyhole at Giaccomo's. It occurred to him, belatedly, that she wasn't going to be able to read it anyway. But he owed her some explanation.

He wasn't going to leave a letter for Benito. Best not to.

Although it caused him a physical pain as sharp as Gianni's knife to do so, he left Angelina's letter folded up inside Caesare's under the wine carafe, so Caesare would be able to see for himself how Angelina had woven a fantasy around him.

* * *

His throat and stomach were hurting again, but he forced the bread and cheese down. He wouldn't be getting any more of that in the swamp. There was no way of keeping anything for more than a day or two in the marshes anyway. If it didn't go moldy it drew vermin. From now on anything he ate--not that food was real attractive at the moment--he'd have to catch or find it when he wanted to eat.

He'd oiled the hinges of the door last night; now he eased down the hallway, and slid back all of the locks and bolts as carefully as he could. He froze half a dozen times, agonizing over the slightest sound, and finally inched through the door, opened just enough so that he could slip through. The sharp-edged cold hit him hard, waking him completely. He closed the door and relocked it. He couldn't do the bolts of course, but at least the door was locked. He posted the key gently back under it. Then he went softly down the water-stairs and sneaked past old Minna's and Tonio's and Maria's empty gondolas all tied up at the bottom. The gondolas stayed silent, their occupants tucked up in all the blankets they owned. Except for Maria, who was tucked up with Caesare--

He stomach lurched. Oh, Angelina!

Now came the hardest part of all--

* * *

He knew Angelina would never be up this early; the Case Vecchie kept hours like Caesare's. He trotted down the wet walkways, watching carefully for slippery pools, as the sun began turning the edge of the sky a bloody red. No fog this morning, but it was as cold as Brunelli's heart, and there might be more rain or even sleet before the day was over. The wind was cutting, cold and bitter. There were a few hearty souls about, even this early: boatmen, folk on their way to work or coming home from it. The cold kept the stink down; the sharp breeze smelled mostly of smoke and wet wool.

Once he thought he saw Claudia's raven head with her bold red scarf tied about her hair to confine it--so he quickly chose another way. Claudia could be damnably persuasive when she wanted to be. And he didn't want to be talked out of the only honorable course he had left.

Dorma's doorkeeper wasn't even awake--thank the Lord. Marco managed to slip his sealed letter to Angelina into the hollow block she had shown him to leave her private billets-doux in. Billets-doux she thought had come from the fascinating, dangerous Caesare. This was no love letter. It was, however, five pages long--and ended with a poem so that she'd believe it really was him who had written the others.

Now she'd hate him forever. It couldn't be helped. It wasn't in agreement with Valdosta honor that he leave Caesare entangled in a lie, nor that he let Angelina continue to believe that same lie.

So why didn't he feel better?

Now to Cannaregio, for his pack, then Giaccomo's.

Lying staring into the dark, he'd made some hard decisions last night. Given all the trouble he'd caused him, the best thing he could do for Caesare Aldanto was to cut his ties with the man. All of his ties, including the job with the Ventuccios, so not even they could hold that over his head.

He sniffed in the cold, his eyes burning and watering--surely from the early-morning woodsmoke--and rubbed his eyes and nose across his sleeve.

Woodsmoke. Sure. Be honest with yourself, Marco Valdosta, even if you've lied to everyone else.

This was hurting more than he'd ever thought it would. For a little while he'd had a family. A weird family, but a family all the same. It hurt to cut loose.

And he had to cut loose; and do it before he managed to do something that couldn't be repaired.

Benito could still be useful to Caesare, and if he ever needed anything Marco could supply, Marco could send it surreptitiously through Benito. Honor could still be satisfied that way.

But he needed some way--if he was ever able to poke his nose back into the city--to keep himself housed and fed. And, maybe, maybe, save enough to sneak into the Accademia . . . perhaps with yet another changed name. If he could find some way to make enough money--

Medicinal herbs weren't all that could be found in the marshes, after all. The other things that were abundant enough were bones. And the way Marco figured it, if someone was superstitious enough to want relics or charms, well, he might as well get the benefit of the money being thrown away. He only knew of one person, though, who might know where he could safely dispose of "smuggled" "relics."

Giaccomo. Who scared the hell out of him.

* * *

Giaccomo's was just open; Marco went up to the front porch and through the door, open and aboveboard. He walked, barefoot because he'd stowed his socks and boots in his pack, silently and oh-so-carefully across the wooden expanse of floor. He gave over Maria's sealed letter, then asked of the man behind the bar in a soft and very respectful voice, if Milord Giaccomo might be willing to talk with him on business. Jeppo left the bar in the care of one of the other helpers and vanished briefly. As it happened, Milord Giaccomo evidently hadn't gone to bed yet--and was apparently willing to see the frequent bearer of so much of Aldanto's coin. Jeppo returned and directed Marco with a silent jerk of his thumb. The office.

The door to the office was next to the bar. Facing Giaccomo scared the liver out of him; to sit quietly at Giaccomo's invitation all alone in the cluttered cubbyhole while the dim gray light smudged the dirty windowpanes, and stammer out his offer, took all of the courage he had left. Giaccomo sat behind his desk, tall, balding--and big, most of it not fat--and looked at him hard and appraisingly, melting away the last of Marco's bravery.

* * *

"You want to sell relics, huh?" he asked Marco bluntly. "Why?"

Marco could hardly think under that cold, cold stare--he stammered something about needing a lot of money, and didn't elaborate.

"What?"

"Saints b-bones. Saint Theodoro," Marco stuttered. "Saint's bones" were fairly common--a cure and a protection for everything from pox to plague. Caesare had once said that it was a good thing that the saints had such numerous and big bones, the rate the city used them. "And . . . and some fragments of Saint Gerado's skull . . ." Skull fragments were more precious. But still quite commonplace.

"That won't get you much money in a hurry." Giaccomo continued to stare at him, jaw clamping shut on each word, eyes murky.

"Don't need it in a hurry. Just need to put it t-together. I can get you Strega herbs and charms, also."

"Huh." The way the big man kept staring at him, Marco imagined he could see all the way through him. He wondered what Giaccomo was thinking; the man's opaque eyes didn't reveal even a hint of his thoughts.

"Well, I don't deal magic, Christian or otherwise."

"Oh." Marco's plan for independence--and the Accademia--collapsed. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, milord. I guess it wasn't too good a notion."

He rose, awkwardly, and started for the door.

"Boy--"

Marco turned, a thread of fear down his spine. Giaccomo wasn't anybody to trifle with. He wondered if he'd passed the invisible bounds beyond which Giaccomo allowed no one he dealt with to trespass. Giaccomo had a way of dealing with trouble, or potential trouble. It ended in the canal, with a rock tied to one ankle. Splash, gone. He wondered if he looked as deathly white as he felt.

"Don't you go making that offer anywhere else--"

Marco gulped. He wasn't quite sure what the look on Giaccomo's face meant, but he thought he'd better answer with the truth. Or part of it.

"I w-wasn't going to, milord." he replied. "You were the only one. I got more sense than to deal with anybody but you. Milord, I got to be going, please, milord. You likely won't be seeing me again. Ever. That's a promise."

He meant that. It would be better for everybody at this point if he went back to the swamp and stayed there. Ties cut clean.

Giaccomo looked--funny. His eyebrows were up near where his hairline used to be. The big man looked a little confused. And oddly troubled. But he let him go, with only: "The town is full of spies, boy. Agents for the Council of Ten, the Servants of the Trinity, and even the Grand Metropolitan in Rome. This sort of business will get you burned at the stake for witchcraft, or beheaded for grave robbing . . . If you're lucky. The brethren who run the real thing . . ."

He shook his head. "Go. You stay out of it, boy. Especially with these magical murders happening. Everyone from the Church to the Doge wants to catch someone. Any scapegoat will do. That's how it works."

Chapter 33 ==========

"That's the fifth murder," said the grim-faced Brother Uriel. "That we know of. This cannot be allowed to go on. We must find the guilty party."

Erik dragged his attention from the burned, shriveled remains of the body on the floor and stared at the monk. Of all the company of Servants of the Holy Trinity in Venice, Uriel was the one Erik found the most acceptable. Nobody could claim to actually like Brother Uriel. But you had to respect him. He was rigid and intolerant, yes. But also scrupulous, and one of the few Servants of the Holy Trinity who seemed to care little for hierarchy. He was certainly not one of Abbot Sachs's favorites. It seemed to make no difference to Uriel.

Manfred yawned and stretched. It was predawn. They--as a group--were only here together because they, and the guard, were the only ones who had not been asleep when the Schiopettieri runner came in. Erik had been drilling with Manfred. Brother Uriel had been having a fasting vigil in the chapel for some obscure saint. The Schiopettieri had sent a boat for them. But they were far, far too late.

Uriel began prayers for the soul of the departed. Erik stepped back and examined the room. There was a small, still hot, furnace. Many tools. Small delicate tools. "What is this place?" he asked of the woman who had called out the Schiopettieri. She was still standing, wringing her hands.

"It's . . . it's Signor Mantelli's workshop." She pointed weakly at the burned crisp on the stone-flagged floor. "He . . . he was a goldsmith."

"He lived here?" asked a tall, slim elegant man who, though he wore the signs of hasty dressing, also wore the air of command. The man had just arrived. From his appearance, Erik suspected he was one of the Lords of the Nightwatch--and was not pleased to find Knights and a Servant of the Holy Trinity there ahead of him.

The woman bowed respectfully. Whoever the man was, he commanded both respect and fear from her. "Upstairs, Lord Calenti. I . . . I was housekeeper to him." A tear began to trickle down her cheek. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. And I never had a chance to tell him that I was sorry. . . ."

The respectfully addressed lord pounced on this. "For what, signora?"

She wrung her hands. "It was a silly thing, Your Honor. He shouted at me because he said I'd stolen a cap of his. A knitted one. It was his favorite. I would never steal, Your Honor. On my father's grave, I swear it! But he was angry. And I was angry. I said . . . many harsh things. He was good man even if he did drink too much."

The Venetian lord patted her shoulder. "There, there, signora. We all say things we afterward regret. I think you should go upstairs and have a glass of your late master's wine. He has family here?"

She shook her head. "No, Your Honor. He is--was--from Padua."

The Venetian lord nodded, and gently guided her to the door.

When it had closed firmly behind her, he turned to the two Schiopettieri standing by the entrance. "Seal this place. Allow no one in, and detain all those who try. They will have to be questioned."

The lord turned to Erik. "Pardon me, Sir Knight. This has now become a matter for the Republic. When the good monk has finished his prayers, I must ask you to leave. To be frank, I am not quite sure why you were summoned in the first place."

Because Abbot Sachs has been spreading bribes among the Schiopettieri, thought Erik sourly. But he saw no reason to contest the matter with more than a shrug. "It seems a bit late for us to do anything, anyway. As soon as Brother Uriel has finished his devotions, we'll go. But I suspect Abbot Sachs will want to come and exorcise and bless the place as well as scour it for witch-sign."

Lord Calenti nodded. "He may apply to me."

That's going to go down really well, thought Erik. But he said nothing. It was left to Manfred to ask the questions starting to trouble Erik. "Lord Calenti. Just what was this man doing that's worrying you? Other than bursting into flames and doing a lot of screaming, that is."

The tall, slim Venetian's eyes narrowed. He looked at the two of them very carefully, obviously considering things. He must have decided that telling them was either innocuous . . . or might carry a message to the people who were involved that he was closing in on them. "Treason," he said grimly, pointing to the workbench and an open mold. "He was a coiner."

At this point, Brother Uriel stood up. "I am finished."

The Venetian lord nodded. "His soul is at rest." The way he said it sounded as if he regretted the fact.

Brother Uriel turned on him. "His soul is in torment! Can you not feel the pain? Something evil, evil beyond your comprehension devoured his very life." The monk shuddered. "The last time I felt the uncontained taint of this much evil was when we clashed with the forces of Lithuania outside Grudziadz. There is great evil afoot in your city."

"I will leave you to deal with matters of the spirit," said the Venetian stiffly. "The Republic must deal with secular affairs. Please leave now."

Lord Calenti looked now as if he regretted telling them anything about the victim, and motioned to the Schiopettieri to see them out.

The dawn was just blushing a translucent cloud-framed sky when they stepped out. Obviously the courtesy of a vessel was not going to be offered to them. In the distance a bell began sound.

Uriel sighed. "Another mess that the Servants of the Trinity are ill-able to deal with. I never though it possible . . . but I wish I was back in the marshes and forests, facing the evils of the Grand Duke of Lithuania's minions--instead of being in this misbegotten and supposedly Christian city. At least there it was clear who our enemies were."

Manfred looked speculatively at the stiff, upright monk. The man was plainly distressed by what he'd encountered. "Just what is going on here, Brother?" he asked. "Why are we even involved here in Venice?"

Brother Uriel shook his head. "You had better ask Father Sachs that," he said heavily. "I am not privy to the inner councils of my order, or yours. I only know that the scryers, including Sister Ursula, have by means of their holy magics foreseen that we have some role to play here in Venice. I do not know why my own abbot sent me to join Abbot Sachs's men. I only know that great evil is afoot in this city. The abbot may claim there is witchcraft everywhere in Venice. I only know what my eyes have seen and my spirit felt."

Erik scowled. "I can understand the Servants of the Holy Trinity. But why the Knights? We are the militant order. Keeping us sitting here is a waste of military power, never mind the fact that we don't really have a clear reason to be staying on at all."

Uriel looked grim. "We have orders to stay until the evil is rooted out. As long as need be. Those orders are not for us to question."

"Maybe not--but with people being killed like this the whole town is a powder keg. Likely to blow up beneath us. And we certainly don't seem to have reduced the level of evil here."

Brother Uriel took a deep breath of the morning air. "True. Look, there is a church over there. I have need of a few moments in prayer and silence. I will return later." He walked off with long determined strides.

Manfred stretched. "Well. That just leaves you and me. How about we walk and take some air, and maybe a sop of new bread and a glass of wine. This day seems pretty old already."

Erik nodded. "Why must they keep on ringing that bell? Every morning it rings for at least half an hour."

"The Marangona," said Manfred. "It's supposed to get the workers to the Arsenal."

"Why? Do they stop ringing it when they all get there?" asked Erik irritably. He was feeling a need to get back to his roots. To the clean open air of Iceland or Vinland. This city with all its great buildings seemed cramped and oppressive. "And what was all that excitement from that Venetian lord about?"

Manfred shook his head. "Intrigue, Erik. Italian intrigue, by Venetians who are the masters of it."

There was an open tavern. The two went in. Manfred ordered wine and flaps of the local bread, in what was, day-by-day, becoming better Italian. Erik had little doubt where he was learning it from. But, on the other hand, at least Francesca was safer than any random street-women that Manfred might have amused himself with. Erik found it awkward, owing someone he should be protecting Manfred from, for their lives. They walked back outside and stood in the chilly morning. The promised sun failed them. But the crisp air off the sea was clean.

"I don't understand about the intrigue, Manfred."

Manfred grinned. "You wouldn't. You understand battle, Erik. This is something else." He took a deep pull from the wine goblet. "This is about what really makes treason happen."

Eric shook his head. "Treason . . . Loyalty? Idealism? Ambition?"

Manfred grinned. "Ignorant Icelander. Money, of course."

Erik grimaced.

"It's like this," Manfred explained. "The Venetians know that money and treason go hand-in-hand. They also know that you can't spend anything in Venice except ducats."

Erik shrugged. "Even trading with the skraelings we use them. They like the hole in the middle because they can string them like beads."

"Uh huh. The mostly widely used coin with the purest gold in Europe. Even the best from the imperial mint at Mainz is not as good. The same coin you use trading in Vinland . . . except here it has no hole in it." Manfred pulled out a coin. "See. If you're a foreign trader, the bankers at the foot of the Rialto bridge won't release your coin until your harbor tax is paid. The hole punched out. Any Venetian must on the order of the Doge exchange holed coins for entire ones. On which they pay tax. You can't spend foreign coin in Venice without it going through the bankers and the Capi di Contrada--their tax collectors. And the Doge's council keeps track of foreign money coming in. They have a good idea of just what is happening by the flow of money. That's why a coiner is a problem. He can melt pure Venetian gold and recast it without the hole."

Erik thought it through. "You could bring in goods, or offer bills of exchange."

"True. And you can bet the Doge's council watches those too. I suppose jewelry might offer a gap. But money is what's usually wanted. Hard cash. Money for weapons. Money for bribes. Money to reward adherents."

Erik looked askance at Manfred. "How do you know this?"

Manfred grinned. "Francesca. We talk sometimes too, you know. Quite a bit, actually. She's a very clever woman. I was thinking of passing this on to Charles Fredrik. Come on, drink up. We can stop at Casa Louise on the way. I want to tell her about all of this."

Chapter 34 ==========

The marsh and the wind swallowed up sound, and the rushes closed them almost into a small room, which was just as well. Chiano howled with laughter, his eyes vanishing in his wrinkles; Marco prayed at that moment that lightning would hit him and reduce him to cinder. It would hurt a lot less than what he was feeling now. He tucked his cold, wet feet under him, huddled under his cotte, and wished he was on the moon. Or dead. Or something.

"Shut up, ye old bastardo--" Sophia scolded sharply, her face crinkling up in anger as she pushed a stray bit of gray hair under her knitted cap; Marco had brought her that the last time he'd come. "Have some pity on the boy. Maybe it's baby-love, but it hurts all th' same--and a young one ain't never been hurt that bad before." She turned to Marco, huddled on one corner of the raft. "Marco-lad, don't ye let him get to ye. I ain't saying ye did right t' leave--but I ain't sayn' ye did wrong neither."

Marco made a helpless gesture. To these two, his protectors and friends, he could tell everything--and he had. It had lessened some of the burden, at least until Chiano had started laughing at him. "I--Sophia, after the mess I got him in, I can't face Caesare, and I can't keep on being a burden to him, either."

"I thought you was working for the Casa Ventuccio. Real work, I mean, not make-work."

"I was."

"That don't sound much like being a burden t' me."

"I--" He hadn't thought of it quite that way. Sure, he and Benito had been living on Aldanto's bounty lately, but they'd been keeping watch over him while he was sick. And helping to get him out of the tangle that illness had put him in. And it had been his savings and Maria's that had bought part of the medicine that had kept Caesare alive. He'd bankrupted himself for Caesare's sake, and hadn't grudged it. He'd lost several more weeks' salary too, staying with Caesare to watch him and watch out for him, and hadn't grudged that either. Maybe he had been pulling his own weight.

"And who's a-going take care of them sick canaler kids if ye're hiding out here?"

That was one thing he hadn't thought of. Not likely Tonio would take them to some strange Strega--Marco was risk enough.

"Don' ye go slamming no doors behind ye," Sophia admonished him gently. "Now, getting out of sight 'til that aristo girl can forget your face, that's no bad notion. But staying here? No, Marco-lad; ye don't belong out here. Stay just long enough to get your head straight--then ye go back, an' take yer licks from that Caesare fellow. Ye learned before, ye can't run from trouble."

Sophia was right. That was exactly what he'd been trying to do--he'd been trying to run from all his troubles, and rationalizing the running.

"Yes, milady," Marco said humbly, feeling lower than a swan's tail.

She shoved his shoulder; but not in an unkindly fashion, "Get along with ye! Milady! Huh!" She snickered, then turned businesslike. "Where ye going park your raft?"

"I figured at the edge of Gianni's old territory, right by the path near that big hummock with the patch of thatch-rush growing out of it."

"Good enough. Get on with it. We'll keep an eye out for ye."

* * *

Chiano waited until Marco was off down the trail and into the reeds; out of sight and hearing. Then he slipped off the raft onto one of the "secret paths" of firm ground that wound all through the swamp. He generally moored both his raft and Sophia's up against one of these strips of "solid" earth--they weren't really visible since most of them were usually covered in water about a handspan deep.

"Where ye goin'?" Sophia asked sharply.

"Going see to our guest," Chiano replied. She shut up at that; shut up and just watched him with caution. Chiano had changed in the past months.

Yes, indeed, he had. Or rather, begun acting more like the person he really was--ever since the news of Gino Despini's death. The more news that trickled out of Venice, the more he was allowing the cloak of deception to slip. From his mind even more than from the minds of others.

He balanced his way along the narrow, water-covered trails, so used to following them he did it unconsciously, so used to the cold water he never noticed his numb feet. Yes, Chiano had been changing.

For the first time in years he was himself--Luciano Marina. Dottore Marina. Strega Grand Master. Grimas.

Fool Grand Master! Beaten, nearly dead. Fleeing for his life. Wounded and damaged. Even his mind confused, abused and lost . . . in that conflict. He still didn't know who had done it, or why--was afraid to know, in truth.

He'd ended up in the marshes and he'd survived. Barely. Perhaps his magical skills had helped. Perhaps the Goddess had held her hand over him, despite his pride and foolishness, as he wandered amnesiac for months among the other loco in the Jesolo. That had been--long ago. It had taken time for the Strega master to begin to return; humbled but alive.

And when he had, then he'd cursed the fate that left him so stripped of all position, possessions, and contacts as to have to stay here. He'd joined up with Sophia some time before Marco had come to them; how much time, he wasn't sure. His memory of that period was . . . vague.

Sophia'd had the gift of healing that he lacked, though he had the knowledge. Together, they'd formed the only source for medicine the swamp folk knew, and he'd done his best to follow the healing path among the crazed and the impoverished losers who lived here.

And now . . . well, perhaps she who was Hecate, Artemis, and Ishtar needed him back. There was a yearning to go back. His position both in the Accademia and Marciana Library had brought prestige, and power. But most of all he yearned for the books.

And--he had learned a great deal. Humility, for one. But also, the need for greater stringency in the service of the Goddess. The Dottore Marina he remembered had been too vain; yet, also, not proud enough. Too peacock soft.

His mind turned to the boy. The boy did not even begin to realize he bore the mark of the winged lion, which had been obvious to Luciano's Strega-trained eye from the moment the boy had stumbled into their lives. Well, the guardian of the lagoons and marshes who had welcomed the gentle Saint Mark was ever so in its choices. They were good vessels. He had to admit that he, Luciano Marina, was a flawed vessel. Still . . . The boy had come back here, and he carried with him the feeling of danger. Danger and darkness far greater than could be linked to one life or death. But Luciano also felt the potential for something else.

* * *

Luciano approached the islet cautiously through the mist, making no sound in the water; he'd left Harrow trancing-out on the mushrooms he'd fed to him.

His caution was needless; Harrow was deaf and blind to everything around him. Except Luciano's voice, and magic.

* * *

Harrow was having another vision. This one was, like the others, beginning with a face; a woman's face. She started out young, then flickered from girl to woman to crone and back again. It was the Goddess, of course. She had come to instruct him again. Harrow felt both exalted and humbled; and excited, with the kind of near-sexual excitement he'd felt only when he'd completed an assignment for Duke Visconti. But he wasn't supposed to be thinking of that. He was supposed to be making himself worthy to be the vessel of the Goddess.

"Harrow--" said the Goddess, her hollow, echoing voice riveting his attention upon her. "You have much to atone for. Are you ready?"

"Yes," replied Harrow thinly, bowing his head as her eyes became too bright to look upon. Those eyes--they seemed to see right into the core of him.

"So let it be."

There was a sound like a great wind, and Harrow was alone in the dark.

Or was he? No--no, there was someone coming. Or forming rather, out of the dark and the mist. Another woman.

For a moment he thought it might be another avatar of the Goddess. Then with a chill of real fear he recognized her. Lorendana Valdosta--once a Montagnard agent herself and dead at the hands of the Visconti's assassins these five years gone. He knew she was dead, and for a certainty. He'd been there when Aleri had given the order; and Bespi himself had slid in the blade while Lorendana's new lover Aldanto held her silent and immobile.

She had been the key Montagnard information-drop in Venice, but she had also been loose-tongued and incredibly reckless. Never less so, Bespi had realized later, than when she'd personally insulted Duke Filippo Visconti by spurning his advances. That knowledge had been the thing, more than any other, which had finally crystallized Bespi's growing disillusionment with the Milanese. He had uncaringly killed a woman for being--so he'd been told--a danger to the cause. The knowledge that he'd actually killed her for no more reason than the duke's personal disgruntlement, when it finally came to him, had been . . . unbearable. He'd realized then that he'd been as gullible as the woman he'd murdered.

She didn't look too gullible now--

"Bespi," a voice said . . . seemingly inside his head. "I see you--"

He blocked his ears, but it did no good. The ghostly voice cut right through him; the almond eyes did the same. She was stark-naked, her well-formed ivory flesh floating in a cloud of smoke and fog and midnight-black hair, obliquely slanted black eyes cold as the grave--she aroused no desire with her weird nudity; he'd never wanted a woman less.

Bespi. You carry my curse. Do you wish to be free of it?

A low moan came from his throat.

My curse shall follow you wherever you go. Her eyes grew until they filled his entire field of vision, black and like looking into hell. He felt ghostly hands running down his arms, leaving chill trails behind them. When you sleep, I shall be there--waiting. When you wake, I shall follow; in all your comings, in all your goings, I shall be one step behind you, making you careless, making you nervous, until one day you will make a mistake--then my fingers will close about your throat--

"Wait!" he yelled. Panic snatched at him now. Dread he had never felt in dealing with the living, or the soon-to-be-dead, closed around his heart and squeezed it like an invisible hand reaching through his chest-wall. He panted. Whimpered . . . "I'll do anything you want!"

The eyes receded and again she floated before him in her cloud of smoke and hair and magic. Then guard my sons.

That caught him off guard. "Huh?" he replied stupidly, unable to fathom the puzzle.

My sons live, Harrow. Bespi who was. Guard them. Guard them well. Keep them from harm. Keep the Montagnards from their throats. Only then my curse will leave you.

"I don't--I mean I don't even know what they look like. How . . . how do I find them!"

There--she pointed and something began forming out of the smoke and the dark beside her. The foggy image of an adolescent--sixteen, seventeen, maybe. A dead ringer for Lorendana. That is Marco.

Bespi/Harrow gasped as he recognized the boy. The one who had killed Gianni! The boy with the great reasons! Harrow could now understand why he had been witness to the sight.

And there--

Beside the first, a boy about two years younger; Carlo Sforza as a kid.

That is Benito. Guard them, Harrow. Your life on it, or you will carry my curse forever.

He had barely sworn to it, when she faded away and his grasp on consciousness went with her.

* * *

Luciano was well pleased with himself. That had been one of the better vision-quests he'd sent Harrow on. The former assassin hadn't fought him, he had responded beautifully to all the suggestions. He hoped the sending of Marco's brother was right. He'd only seen the boy once, but somehow it had seemed a good touch. These were just small magics, true. But he did not dare to try greater magic than this. Not without calling the sort of attention that he didn't want onto himself.

Harrow came around gradually. He wasn't a particularly pretty sight, with half his head scarred and the rest of him splotchy with burned skin. He coughed a good deal too: a gift from the smoke and the water he'd breathed in. But he was functional; indeed, he'd healed better and faster than Luciano had thought likely. The new vessel of the Goddess sat up slowly, uncurling from his nest of reeds and rags and old blankets. He blinked at the sun, and then at Luciano, his dilated eyes not focusing properly.

"Well?" asked Luciano.

"I got--a thing--I got to do," the man said through stiff lips, eyes still hazed with the drug.

"The Goddess gave you a task, huh?"

"But I don't--I don't--I got to take care of a couple of children--" His pupils were still dilated, but there was a certain despair in his voice. Luciano kept his satisfaction shuttered behind his own stony expression as he crouched down next to Harrow in the reeds.

"So?"

"But--how the hell am I going find her children?"

"What children? Whose children?"

"Valdosta. Marco and Benito Valdosta." If Harrow was confused about why the Goddess would be concerned over the welfare of Lorendana's two children, he wasn't showing it. But then Harrow had never been strong on logic. "How the hell am I going to find them?"

Luciano spread his arms wide with his hands palm-upwards and looked to the sky, taking on dignity and power as he deepened his voice. This was the part he played the best-- He knew, thanks to another very minor piece of magic, that the former Montagnard assassin now saw him haloed in a haze of dim white light. Every time he took that particular pose, Harrow would see him glowing with the power of the Goddess. "Praise be the Goddess. Blessed are the vessels of her will. Her ways are beyond all mortal understanding."

He lowered his eyes to meet Harrow's. "She has you in Her plan, Harrow; She's had you there from the start of the world. She weaves the threads of destiny on her loom! Marco Valdosta is right here, Harrow; in the swamp. He's hiding out, an' he's scared. He damn-well needs protecting; he's a good child and this here is a bad place. But he's nervous and he's touchy; he won't let nobody near him, except them as he knows, like me and Sophia. You want to watch over him, fine. That's the Goddess's will. But if you show yourself, he'll run, I can promise that. If he even guesses you're there, he'll run. You want to keep him from running further and right into more trouble, you stay right out of sight."

As Harrow nodded understanding, Luciano rose and stepped off the islet into the knee-deep murky water of the swamp. Harrow followed, showing no more discomfort than Luciano.

"Come on, then--I'll show you where to keep watch on him without him knowing you're there."

* * *

Marco's hands ached with the cold as he worked without really thinking about what he was doing. He was trying to hold his mind in a kind of numb limbo, as numb as the rest of him was getting. He was doing his best to avoid thinking, to just exist. The cold and the damp were making his nose run and the slap of water and the hushing of wind in the reeds and the little sounds he was making were punctuated by his sniffles.

His raft and hideout had been where he'd left them--and as he'd expected--they'd been stripped. The hidey was still in surprisingly good shape, all things considered. Marco was grateful. He hadn't had much other good luck lately.

Even with the water level in the swamp at high water, it had been cruel, hard work to pole the raft out of his old territory and into Gianni's.

Gianni had ruled one of the best territories in the marsh. There was an unobstructed view of the city across the water and a nice stock of food plants as well as two really good fishing holes and a couple of solid islets. Marco's arms and back were screaming with pain before he got his home to its new location and, if he hadn't been working, he'd have been three-quarters frozen. As it was he was soaked to the skin and glad of the change of dry clothes in his pack. He had moored the raft up against the islet. With the camouflaging hideout over it, it would look like an extension of the island.

The sun was a dim, gray disk above the horizon when he'd gotten set up properly. Despite the cold, he'd been sweating with exertion; even his feet were almost warm. He'd been up since before dawn and by now it seemed as if it should be nearly nightfall, not barely morning.

From the islet he gathered rushes and sedge to weatherproof the hideout against the winter rains and winds. Then it was nothing but drudge-work. Crouch over the framework and interlace the vegetation into it. Grass, then sedge, then reeds, then grass again until it was an untidy but relatively windproof mound. With only his hands moving, evening coming on and the wind chilling him, he'd lost all the heat he'd gained by the time he was ready to thread new tall reeds into the top of the bushy hammock to renew its disguise. It was well towards full darkness when he'd finished to his satisfaction.

He was exhausted and cold all the way through, still soaked to the skin and more than ready for the sleep he'd lost last night. But he hadn't forgotten his old lessons. He made more trips to the center of the islet for old dry grasses, stuffing the cavity beneath the hideout with them. He crawled under the basketlike hideout and stripped, putting his soggy clothing between the "mattress" of dry grasses and his bottom blanket, to dry while he slept. Then he curled up into his grass-and-blanket nest to shiver himself to almost-warmth, then sleep the sleep of the utterly exhausted. It was a far cry from the cozy bed he'd left in Aldanto's apartment. If he hadn't been so cold and tired, he might have cried himself to sleep.

* * *

As he returned to his own islet, wading through the reeds, Luciano did not notice the sudden swirl in the nearby deep water, as if a large fish had been attacked by a larger and was making a desperate escape. Nor did he notice the undine, a short time later, slowly raising her head above water and studying him as he made his way back to the camp he shared with Sophia.

A small streak of blood dripped from the undine's sharp-toothed mouth. The mouth gaped wide, expressing satisfaction. Then the undine slid beneath the surface of the water and was gone.

Chapter 35 ==========

When the shaman's human form had returned sufficiently to enable him to speak, the grand duke leaned forward from his throne and touched the shoulder of the man squatting before him. Then, brought the fingers to his heavy lips and tasted the water which soaked the shaman's fur cloak. The taste was that of the stinking waters of the Jesolo marshes; that, and some blood.

"Well?"

The grand duke's shaman shook his head. The gesture was not one of uncertainty; it was one of fear. The man's lips were trembling.

"It is dangerous, lord. The Strega is not powerful, but he knows a great deal. Even now. And so long as he remains in the Jesolo, he has protectors." The shaman winced, rubbing his shoulder. As always, the shape-change had healed the wound, but the pain lingered. The undine's teeth had been sharp and jagged.

"The priest? Did you find him? I need to know where he goes when he leaves his quarters."

The shaman hesitated; tried to control his trembling lips. This question was far more dangerous than any undine. "I sensed him, lord, yes. Impossible not to, anywhere in Venice. Even in the marshes, I could sense him. Though not strongly. His presence is very strong anywhere in the vicinity of the Ghetto."

The shaman paused, hoping that answer would satisfy his master. He kept his eyes lowered, his shoulders hunched under the heavy cloak. At all costs, he wished to avoid the grand duke's gaze. Jagiellon's eyes were . . . frightening.

"Do not annoy me, slave. Or I will send you back into the forests of Karelen with your shape-changing powers severely stunted. Difficult to be a shaman without a hide. I will eat your skin."

The shaman was frozen, for a moment. The grand duke's threat was not an idle one; not in the least. The shaman had seen his master eat a retainer's skin thrice before. The first time, the skin had belonged to the shaman's predecessor. The grand duke had required the shaman to taste the meal first, before Jagiellon devoured the remainder, on the off chance that a fanatic might have poisoned his own skin before displeasing the ruler of Lithuania with his incompetence.

"It is dangerous, lord," whined the shaman. "For you as much as me. The priest is much less knowledgeable than the Strega, but--he is very strong. Very strong!" The shaman rubbed his temples with both hands; brackish water soaked through the fingers. "It hurt my head just being near him."

A massive hand seized the shaman's shaggy hair and jerked his head up. "Look at me."

Despite his terror, the shaman dared not disobey. For all that he desperately desired to close his eyes, he met the grand duke's stare.

The moment lasted for . . . the shaman knew not how long. It seemed endless. But, eventually, the grand duke relinquished his iron grip and allowed the shaman's head to sag forward.

"I will tolerate your cowardice. For the moment. There is some truth to what you say. The priest is, indeed, very strong."

The grand duke's huge hands tightened on the armrests of his throne. He swiveled his massive head and stared at the window facing to the south. As was true of all the windows in Jagiellon's private chambers, this one was covered with heavy drapes. The drapes, dark red against the dark brown wooden walls, gave the room an almost funereal atmosphere.

"I have already punished those who did not prevent his mission to Venice," said the grand duke, so softly it almost seemed as if he were speaking to himself. "Intolerable incompetence. The man himself asked leave to go to the Holy Land; and the Grand Metropolitan is a weakling. It should have been easy to arrange."

The shaman relaxed a bit. As was always true with Jagiellon's underlings, the news of another's punishment came as a great relief. The grand duke needed punishment in his diet as much as food, and he ate both in prodigious quantities. Still, he was not exactly a glutton. One or two Lithuanian agents in Rome dead--most likely by poison or knife; possibly by magic--meant less chance of a shaman's skin being fried in Vilna.

The shaman even made so bold as to speak. "For all his strength, lord, the priest is groping in the dark. Best to leave him there, until it is too late. Whereas, if you strike at him . . . and the thing is mishandled or goes awry . . ."

Ensconced in his heavy robes of office, the body of the grand duke filled the chair to overflowing. When the body shifted, as it did now, the sturdy piece of furniture creaked alarmingly.

With as much alarm, if not more, the shaman studied that shifting form surreptitiously, from under lowered eyelids. Suggesting that the grand duke might be contemplating error, as the shaman was now doing, was risky.

The shaman was relieved to see that the shifting seemed more a matter of a heavy body adjusting its weight than of one gathering itself for the attack. The grand duke's obesity, as the shaman had many occasions to recall, was deceptive. Beneath the rolls of fat lay slabs of muscle whose power went beyond the human. And while Jagiellon was now a great sorcerer in his own right, the ruler of Lithuania was partial to more physical means of expressing his displeasure. As a prince, before the fat which came upon his body after the change, Jagiellon had been a famous warrior.

"Um." Jagiellon said no more than that, for a few minutes. Throughout that time, the shaman squatted silently, unmoving, his eyes hidden under the lowered brow and the great mane of shaggy hair. Trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

"You may be right," mused the grand duke, eventually. "It is certainly true that when I let the Woden escape, the results were . . . unfortunate. I had thought the Lion's slumber to be a heavier thing."

The shaman dared to speak again. "That was the strength of the priest at work, Lord. He is dangerous."

"Yes." Again, silence. "Impervious to seduction also, it seems. I had hopes for that tool, but she is proving less useful than desired."

There was a slight edge to the last words. From long experience, the shaman knew that a death sentence had just been passed. He felt a small regret. The tool in question was as beautiful as she was evasive. Thus far, unlike the other female in Venice, she had managed to retain her own soul. But the shaman knew it would have been only a matter of time before Jagiellon broke her to his will. After which, as was his way, he would allow his chief underlings to enjoy the woman.

But the regret was small, and fleeting. There would be other beautiful women. Being in service to Jagiellon was as rewarding as it was perilous.

Still . . .

"She may be of use yet, Lord," murmured the shaman. "If she has failed in that task, she has succeeded in many others."

Again, the great body shifted; and, again, the shaman grew tense. But, again, it was simply an obese ruler's discomfort.

"True. We will see. In the meanwhile, I have decided you are correct. We will continue the murders, but keep the Woden on a tight leash. And make no attempt, for the moment, to remove either the mage or the priest. Time is on my side, after all. Venice grows more ragged by the day. So long as the priest remains ignorant and the mage remains too terrified to act . . . good enough."

The grand duke planted his hands on the arm rests of the chair and heaved his great, gross body erect. "Leave now."

The shaman bobbed his head, rose, and scuttled from the room. He left behind him a trail of foul-smelling water, in addition to the pool which had collected before the grand duke's throne where he had squatted. But the shaman was not concerned about that. Jagiellon was not fastidious. Not in the least.

When the door closed behind him, the shaman finally heaved the great sigh of relief he had been suppressing. He was always relieved when he left Jagiellon's presence, of course. But never more so than when he could hear the heavy robes slithering to the floor and smell, behind him, the coming transformation.

Moving as rapidly as he could without actually running, he scurried down the corridors of the palace in Vilna. It would take the shaman some time to reach his room, for he had deliberately chosen quarters as far away as possible from those of Jagiellon. As far away, in fact, as the immense and sprawling palace permitted.

The distance was still not enough, as far as the shaman was concerned. The stench was getting stronger by the moment, seeming to follow him like a hound. None of the various guards whom he passed noticed it, of course. They did not possess the shaman's other senses.

Chernobog was feeding.

Chapter 36 ==========

Benito hadn't worried when he'd awakened and seen that Marco's bed was empty. Marco had been going to work early, the past few weeks, working in a frenzy of earnest activity all day, and leaving work late. Old man Ventuccio himself had come down out of his office to see the handiwork of his new clerk. Too bad Marco hadn't been there at the time; he'd been out at lunch, and nobody thought to mention it to him when he came back. Of course, the other clerks were probably jealous--half of them were Ventuccio hangers-on anyway, worthless cousins who weren't expected to accomplish much for their salary.

Benito thought he knew why Marco had been working so hard--he might be hoping to get an advance on his wages. He'd spent all the cash he'd saved on Caesare, and in a week the rent was due on their apartment in Cannaregio. A runner earned about a quarter of what a clerk earned; Benito couldn't pay it. And if Marco couldn't raise the ready, it was back to the leaky attics for both of them, unless Aldanto would let them stay on. Which wasn't really likely. Maria was getting an impatient and irritated look whenever her eyes happened to fall on them. She'd been snapping at Marco for being underfoot, and it was clear to Benito that they'd worn out their welcome once Aldanto had recovered from the fever. He had a fair notion that it was Caesare overruling Maria that was keeping him and Marco in the apartment.

And that despite Benito's being smart-mouthed with both of them.

With Marco too, which Marco hadn't much noticed, but he had noticed Benito's attitude with Aldanto. That had gotten a rise out of him, more than Benito had intended.

He'd backed--no, slammed--Benito into the wall the night before last; and his face had been so cold, so tortured--

"You listen to me, Benito, you listen to me good. You're messing with fire, I'll tell you once and not again! Caesare's an aristocrat, he's quiet--but he's killed more people than you have hair, and you'd better think about that hard before you smart him off another time. I don't know why he's putting up with you, but I won't, not any more! I'll beat you black and blue next time--because I'd rather you were beaten up than dead. Remember he's a trained assassin. Remember who trained him, and that they murdered Mama before you open your mouth to Caesare again."

He'd sulked for the rest of that day and most of the next, not speaking to Marco. But he had thought about it, and he'd come to the reluctant conclusion that Marco had been right. Even if Marco was more than a bit touched about some girl. So he'd started to make friendly noises at his brother again.

Thus, all-in-all, he didn't think twice about Marco being gone. But when Marco wasn't at work, and didn't show up there by the time Benito got sent out with his first message, he began to worry just a little.

He came around the corner of Ventuccio's on his second run of the day and saw a familiar gondola tied up at the base of the stairs with a lurch of foreboding. No mistaking that particular tilt of a weather-beaten hat--that was Maria's gondola down there, and with Maria in it. And where Maria was--

"Man to see you, boy," was the curt greeting at the door; sure enough, behind Benito's supervisor stood--

Caesare Aldanto. Wearing that impassive mask that said trouble.

"Benito . . ." Caesare barely waited for Ned Ventuccio to get out of earshot before starting in, and Benito backed up a pace or two, until his back was against the office wall. "Benito, have you seen your brother this morning?"

Benito decided to play innocent. "You mean he ain't here?" he replied, making his eyes big and round.

Aldanto was not fooled--and the flash of annoyance in his eyes told Benito that he was not in the mood for this sort of nonsense.

Aw, hell--Marco's in trouble--

"You know damned well he hasn't been here," Aldanto hissed, grabbing Benito's arm before he could dart out of reach. "Your brother's in a mess--now I want to know what it is and where he is."

"I don't know, M'lord Caesare, honest--" Lord the strength in that hand! Benito belatedly began to think about what Marco had told him when he'd given him that lecture--about what Caesare was--and what he could do. And he began to wonder--

What if the man had turned his coat a second time? If he was planning to use Benito to get to Marco, and sell Marco back to the Montagnards? Marco was worth plenty to the right people.

Paranoid, that was plain paranoid; there'd been no hint of any such thing.

But--if the Montagnards threatened Maria? Would he buy safety for Maria with Marco's life? He might, oh God, Aldanto might . . .

"Boy, I want you back in the apartment--" Aldanto was saying. "I've made it right with the Ventuccios." Benito had missed what had gone before; God, this did not sound good. There was no threat that Benito could read in Aldanto's face, but dare he take the chance that he could read an experienced agent?

Aldanto still had his arm in that iron grip, and was pulling him out of the door with him. Benito's mind was going like a scrap of drift in a strong current. He couldn't take the chance; no way. He had to get away from Caesare if he could.

Besides, if Marco was really in trouble, Benito could likely help him better than some Milan-born foreigner or even a canaler like Maria could; he knew the town, and knew most of the dark ways. And there was always Valentina and Claudia to call on if he had to.

They were out on the balcony now, Benito playing docile, and Aldanto loosed his grip just enough.

Benito whipped around, putting all his weight behind a wicked blow with his elbow, and he'd aimed a bit lower than Aldanto's midsection--aimed at something more personal.

Hit it, too; dead on target.

Caesare was wide-open and completely taken by surprise.

He doubled over with a painful wheeze, and loosened his grip on Benito's arm.

Benito lit out like a scalded cat, heading around the balcony and straight for the bridge.

Aldanto started yelling--recovering faster than Benito had figured he would, and began running after him. But Benito had gotten a good twenty feet worth of a head start, and that was all he needed. He made the bridge supports and jumped for the crossbeams, swarming up into the scaffolding like one of Venice's feral cats. From there he made it to the rooftops and, as he knew from long experience, there was no way an adult was going to be able to follow him up there--not unless the adult was another roof-walking thief like Valentina.

It was cold up there, and doubly dangerous with the wind so strong and unexpected patches of wet everywhere, and smoke blowing into his face when he least expected it. Benito didn't stop for breath, though, not until he'd gotten halfway across Castello. Then he slumped in a warm spot between two chimneys for a bit of a rest and a bit of a think.

Marco was in trouble--that much was certain. Either with Aldanto or on his own. And Benito was going to have to see what he could do about it--if he could find out what the trouble was.

The last person Marco had talked to--that he knew of--was Rafael de Tomaso. Benito reckoned he'd better pay that fellow a little visit.

So best to lie low for a bit, then get across the Grand Canal to Dorsoduro. He'd been to Rafael's room once; and Benito figured he knew of a way in that wasn't by the door.

* * *

Katerina looked out of the high window of one of towers of Casa Montescue at the gathering dusk. It was a slaty, gray evening. The lagoon was gray too, chopped and flecked with white. It was going to be bitter out there tonight. Still, she had no choice.

Well . . . she could become a courtesan. Francesca had managed to make that--occupation--seem even less attractive than Kat had thought possible. And she hadn't thought it was in the least bit attractive to begin with.

Still--at least she'd get to spend miserable evenings indoors. And it wasn't as if she'd ever met any one man she felt she'd like to be tied to. But it would kill her grandfather. Kat Montescue was a realist, though: one day she might just have no choices. And at least a courtesan had some choices and more independence than most wives could dream of. And unlike many Case Vecchie, she did have one of the essential requirements for being a courtesan and not just a whore. She was literate. Still, the idea of multiple lovers . . . many of them old and corpulent, was repugnant, to say the least. Francesca could put a bold face on it, but the idea still frightened Kat. When she'd been a girl, she'd always thought that she'd marry a young and handsome man. The trouble was, in Venice, most of the young and handsome Case Vecchie were off in various trading colonies of the Venetian Republic. Of course some of the older men--like Lord Calenti--were still attractive, at least in their own opinion.

She pulled a wry face. This was all foolishness! She might have the education and literacy, but that was hardly sufficient. She didn't have the lush beauty of someone like Francesca; not even close. So . . . it would be out in the dark on a nasty night again, and there was an end to it.

Lodovico came in, rubbing his hands and looking worried. "What did you think of Lord Calenti's visit, cara mia?"

Kat bit her lip. She could hardly tell her grandfather that she thought the man had too high an opinion of himself, and that she'd always thought there was something vaguely slimy about Calenti. Although she allowed that, other than being so obviously vain, he had been pleasant enough. A surprising visitor, but pleasant withal. Alessandra had been in an absolute fury when she'd discovered that one of Venice's most eligible bachelors had come on a private call on Milord Montescue--and not one involving her.

"I don't understand why he came, Grandpapa." Calenti had been perfunctorily polite to Kat, nothing more. So he certainly hadn't come to see about her.

Or had he?

Kat hadn't considered that possibility, she suddenly realized. Casa Calenti had plenty of money, but they were not really Case Vecchie. For them, a dowry would not be as important as the social advancement involved in marrying a girl from what was still, despite their current misfortune, one of Venice's handful of most prestigious families.

Lodovico pulled a face. "I don't know how to tell you this . . ."

Kat waited, blood draining to the pit of her stomach.

Lodovico continued. "He wanted a small parcel of documents transported to Constantinople."

Kat, her hasty assumptions knocked asunder, could only manage to shake her head. "Him?"

Lodovico Montescue nodded. "He offered me a great deal of money for it."

Kat sighed. "I wish you hadn't, Grandpapa."

Her grandfather hugged her, smiling. "Katerina. I didn't accept it. In fact, I rather indignantly refused. Does the man think me a fool? It's either spying, treason, or a trap."

Kat's eyes narrowed. "A trap."

Lodovico chuckled. "The Council of Ten will assume we are clean as driven snow." He scowled fiercely. "And I told him not to offer my granddaughter his slip-slop compliments either."

Katerina went down to her room to change into her warmest clothes in a far more cheerful frame of mind. Yes. Lord Calenti would be just the man to set such a trap.

* * *

The cheerfulness lasted until she was out on the dark water, battling the wind and the waves. Deliveries, she'd shifted to the daytime. But collections from Captain Della Tomasso were always at night, always before moonrise, and always off Guidecca. Della Tomasso was definitely a fence, definitely a messenger for spies, a smuggler . . . and their lifeline. He was a careful, taciturn man. And they owned his ship.

She hit a wave amidships, and it splashed and slopped over the gunwale. It was a good idea keeping the relationship between the illegal cargoes that Captain Della Tomasso carried and the Casa Montescue as far apart as possible. The old devil would load a legal cargo of salt, beeswax, and hides at the Montescue warehouse not seventy-five yards from Kat's bedroom tomorrow morning. Of course his coaster would be clean as a whistle while the Capi di Contrada were about at the warehouse. Of course they couldn't chance passing incriminating parcels to-and-fro there. But Kat wished to hell--by her half-frozen hands--that she could meet him somewhere closer to the Casa.

Chapter 37 ==========

Old habits woke Marco with the first hint of dawn--he'd been so exhausted otherwise that he'd have managed to sleep through to the afternoon. He'd spent a good part of the night with his teeth chattering hard enough to splinter, until exhaustion put him to sleep for another hour or so. He stuck his head out from under the hideout, still shivering, and peered around in the gray light. No fog this morning, though the sky was going to be overcast. He pulled his head back in, and checked his clothes where he'd put them under his bottom blanket. As he'd hoped, they were reasonably dry, water driven out by the heat of his body. He beat the worst of the dried mud out of them, and pulled them on, wrapped a blanket around himself, pulled his cotte on over it all, and crawled back out into the day.

He hopped from the edge of his raft onto the edge of the islet--which was an exposed and weathered ledge of rock, and a lot more solid than many a landing back in town. He wriggled his way in to the center of the islet, having to carefully pull his blanket and clothing loose when branches snagged them, lest he leave tell-tale bits of yarn behind, or rip holes in clothing he didn't have the wherewithal to repair. He was looking for a place where he would be well hidden by the reeds and rushes--at least hidden from the casual observer. He finally found a dry spot, one well padded by the accumulation of many years of dead reeds, and made himself a little hollow to sit in. He reckoned it would do well enough; he hunched down into the hollow, hugged his knees to his chest, and settled down to the unpleasant task of confronting everything he wanted to avoid thinking about.

Take it one step at a time--

All this time, he'd been casually saying to himself: "Caesare will kill me for this." Looking at the mess he'd made of things in the cold light of dawn, and soberly recollecting his own lecture to Benito--might he?

He might, Marco thought reluctantly. And be justified. If Casa Dorma take offense . . . he could hand Petro Dorma my head, and get himself out of it. I've made myself into a pretty expensive liability.

But would he? Marco looked at it from all the angles he could think of, and finally decided that he probably wouldn't. Aldanto never did get that drastic without having several reasons for doing it. To be brutally frank, Aldanto was too much of a professional to waste anything, even the time and effort it would take to dispose of a stupid child.

And Maria would probably get upset if Aldanto actually killed Marco. For all that the girl doted on her lover, and had the usual canaler's tough outlook on life, Marco didn't think that she really approved of Caesare's . . . profession. And he thought that, underneath the temper, she was actually quite fond of him and Benito.

But just to be on the safe side--

Rafael had suggested he hide out here about two weeks, then come back into town. Get hold of Benito first--give him a note for Caesare. Use the old Montagnard codes, and flat ask him if he thinks I'm better gotten out of the way, permanent-like. Then make a counteroffer. Say--say that I'll do what he wants me to do; come in, stay here, or leave Venice altogether.

The last wouldn't be easy, or desirable from his point of view, but he'd do it; he couldn't go north--but south, maybe? Or maybe hire on as a hand on an Outremer-bound ship?

That was a possibility. The sailors had seemed pretty rough characters, but basically good people, when he'd met a couple at Ventuccio's. But--

He had a fairly shrewd notion of what some of the duties of a very junior (and passable-looking) sign-on might well include, and he wasn't altogether sure he could stomach the job. Better that, though, than dead. No such thing as a "fate worse than death" in Marco's book--except maybe a fate involving a lengthy interrogation at the hands of Montagnards, the Servants of the Holy Trinity, or Ricardo Brunelli--or Caesare Aldanto.

But Benito--if he left Venice, he'd have to leave Benito. No good could come to a fourteen-year-old kid in a strange place like Acre or Ascalon, or more-or-less trapped on an eastbound ship.

That would leave him more alone than he'd ever been.

He swallowed hard, and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. So be it. For Benito's sake, he'd do just about anything. Including take on that lengthy interrogation.

But figure Caesare wanted him back in; in a lot of ways that was the worst case. Si, I'll go in, I take my licks. God knows what he'll do. Probably beat the liver out of me. Be worse if he didn't, in some ways. He won't be trusting me with much, anyway, not after the way I've messed up. Don't blame him. I wouldn't trust me, either.

So. Be humble; be respectful. Take orders, follow 'em to the letter, and earn the respect back. Even if it takes years.

Thank God he'd told the truth--at least he'd cut the thing with Angelina short, before it had landed them in more tangles than could be cut loose.

Give up on the notion of the Accademia--too close to the Dorma, especially with Dorma cousins going there. Hang it up; stay content with being Ventuccio's third-rank clerk. At least that paid the bills.

Stay clear of anyplace Angelina might show, unless Caesare ordered different.

Keep clear of the Strega, too. That meant Valentina and Claudia and Barducci's tavern--again, unless Caesare ordered differently.

Going back meant more than facing Caesare--it meant figuring a way to pay the damn bills with no money. Rent was paid until the end of the month--but that was only one week away. Borrow? From whom? Maria didn't have any to spare. Not Caesare--

Marco gnawed his lip, and thought and thought himself into a circle. No choice. Has to be Caesare. Or beg an advance from Ventuccio. Have to eat humble pie twice. Charity. Hell.

Sometimes it seemed as if it would be a lot easier to find one of the marsh bandits and taunt them into killing him; God knew it wouldn't take much. But he hadn't fought and fought and fought to stay alive this long just to take the easy way out.

Last possibility--that Caesare would tell him to stay. That Caesare would trust to the Jesolo marshes to kill him, rather than killing him outright. Well, wasn't staying what Marco had figured on doing in the first place?

All right, if Caesare told him to stay in the marshes--well, Marco would stay. At least this time he'd arrived equipped to do a little better than just survive. Not much, but a little. So long as he could keep clear of the bandits, he'd manage. And he and Benito could go back to the old routine--at least he'd be near enough to keep in touch.

Now--the Montagnards--have I screwed up there too?

* * *

Benito waded through mud and freezing water; over his ankles mostly, sometimes up to his knees. His legs were numb, his teeth were chattering so hard he couldn't stop them, and his nose was running. He kept looking over his shoulder, feeling like he was being watched, but seeing nothing but the waving weeds that stood higher than his head. There was a path here, of a sort, and he was doing his best to follow it. If he hadn't been so determined to find his brother, he'd have turned tail and run for home a long time ago.

Rafael de Tomaso had told him the whole messy story, and had admitted that he had advised Marco to go and hide out for a week or two until the thing could blow over. Benito had gotten a flash of inspiration right then, and hadn't waited to hear more--he'd lit off over the roofs again--

It had taken him half an hour to reach the apartment in Cannaregio--

To discover Marco's belongings stripped, right down to the books. The fact that it was only Marco's things ruled out thieves. Stuff gone, plus hiding, added up to "marshes" to Benito.

So he put on every shred of shirt and cotte he had, and two pairs of pants, and made for the roofs again.

He had to get down to the roadways by the time he reached Castello. By then he had gotten the notion that it might just be a good idea to let Maria and Caesare know where Marco had gone, and to let them know he was headed out after him.

Damn fool Rafael, he'd cursed, more than once. Damn marshes almost killed Marco before this--hell, it could do it now! Damn fool city-dweller, thinks living in the Jesolo in wintertime, in the middle of the Aqua alta, is like living in the city--

So he'd looked around for a boatman, knowing that boat-folk stuck together, knowing that what he told one would be halfway across town by midmorning.

"Hey!" he'd yelled at the first head that poked out of a small pirogue's cabin to peer at him, bleary-eyed, in the dawnlight. "Hey--you know Maria Garavelli?"

"Might," said the bargee; old, of dubious gender.

"Look, you find her, you tell her Marco's headed out into the Jesolo marshes and Benito's gone after him." Then he added, shrewdly, "There's money in it."

The whole canaler had popped out of the hidey then, and the creature was jerking at his tie-rope as Benito continued his run down to the sandbars off the eastern point of Castello and the "path" Marco had told him about. He hoped he was right about the tide. You could only get across there at dead-low.

Marco had talked so casually about walking in among the islands and out into the Jesolo. Benito was finding out now that it was anything but easy. For one thing, he could hardly tell where he was going, what with the reeds being so high. For another, it was hard to follow this so-called "path." It was prone to having deep washouts where least expected. He was wet to his collar, and mired to his waist, and it was a good thing that wool clothing stayed warm when wet, or he'd have been frozen into an icicle by now. The swamp was eerily silent, the only sounds being the splashing and sucking noises of his own passage and the murmur of a breeze in the reeds. It was damned cold. And it smelled to high heaven. Worst of all, Benito wasn't entirely certain that he wasn't lost.

"Marco?" he called, hoping that he was close enough to the area Marco had described Chiano and Sophia living in. He hoped that his brother would be the one to hear him. One heard horrible stories about the marsh-folk. "Marco?"

* * *

Harrow crouched in the cover of the reeds and rushes on the little muck-and-reed hummock Luciano Marina had led him to, watching the boy. Or rather, what he could see of the boy, which from this angle was only the top of his head. So far, this business of guarding Lorendana's kids had been absurdly easy. He'd stayed under cover most of yesterday, watching the boy work on his hideout until he seemed finished, then watching the hideout after the boy crawled into it to sleep. Then Luciano Marina had come to bring him some food and told him to get some sleep. He'd gone back to his hiding place near Luciano's raft. When dawn arrived, so had Luciano Marina. The Strega had given him something to chew on--"keeps the cold away," he'd said--and sent him back to his watching-place.

So far all that the boy had done was to make a pocket-sized fire and boil a pot of water for drinking. Other than that, he'd sat on the island for the past hour or more, hidden in the reeds, not moving. Harrow chewed the bitter-tasting, woody stuff Luciano Marina had given him. It made his head buzz pleasantly, and did, indeed, keep the cold away. He wondered what the kid was up to. Meditating? Neither Luciano Marina nor the vision of Lorendana had said anything about the boy being mystical. But it was a possibility, given the Goddess's interest in him.

Well, whatever, it was certainly proving to be a lot easier than he'd thought it was going to be--

He was too well trained to jump at the sudden sound of a shout, echoing across the marsh. It was the voice of a boy calling out a name, echoing out of the depths of the swamp.

"Marco?" It was so distorted he couldn't really tell what direction it was coming from. "Marco?"

Someone was looking for young Valdosta! He focused his attention on the boy just in time to see him slide off the islet and into the reeds, fast as a lizard and nearly as silently. Harrow saw the weeds shake once--and the boy was gone.

* * *

Saints!

That was Benito's voice, echoing among the islets. If Marco could hear him, it was damn sure others could. For all of his younger brother's savvy about the streets and canals of Venice, Benito had no real understanding of the dangers which lurked in the marshes.

Marco slid off the islet, skidding on sharp-edged, rustling grass, slipping on icy mud patches. He splashed down onto the path, ignoring the knifelike cold of the water, and then began moving as quickly and quietly as he could. He wove through the reeds, hoping he'd get to his brother before anyone else did. But he must get there without getting ambushed himself. Marco made scarcely more noise than a snake, keeping his feet under the icy water to avoid splashing, slipping between the clumps of dry, rattling rushes rather than forcing his way through them. Benito's one hope was that at this time of year, most of the really bad locos were deeper into the marsh than this.

He burst into a tiny clearing unexpectedly, knife at the ready, practically on top of the kid.

"Marco!"

Benito flung himself at his brother, heedless of the knife Marco held, looking well and truly frightened. He clung to him as they both teetered in icy, knee-deep, mud-clouded water. Marco returned the embrace, relieved almost to the point of tears to find him safe.

"Benito--" He hugged him hard. "Thank God--thank God you're all right!"

Then Marco looked up from the kid clinging to him, to see that they had been surrounded on three sides.

It was the Squalos; a banditti gang of marsh locos. A bad bunch, too. Mostly younger than the general run of the swamp folk; late teens to early thirties. Rumor had it they worked for slavers. When supplies of suitable bodies in town ran low, bodies tended to start disappearing from the swamp.

There were ten of them, ragged, dirty, and predatory. They had spaced themselves in a rough ovoid, standing on high spots at irregular intervals between the reed hummocks, at distances from fifteen to twenty feet from the two boys, except on the side bordering the deep water. Feral eyes gazed hungrily at them from within tangles of filthy hair and beard.

They were in deep trouble.

Marco slipped his spare knife from his belt, feeling the hilt like a slip of ice in his hand, and passed it wordlessly to Benito. Then he shifted his own knife to his left hand and felt in his pocket for his sling and a stone. He got the stone into the pocket of the sling one-handed, and without taking his attention off the gang. With the sling loose and ready in his right hand, he shifted his weight from side to side, planting himself a little more firmly in the treacherous, icy mud. And prayed his numb feet wouldn't fail him.

"Hear ye finished off Big Gianni, Marco."

One of the least ragged of the gang members stepped forward. Marco recognized the leader, Grimaldi, by his shock of wild reddish hair.

"Hear yer got pretty good wi' that sticker." The redhead made a vaguely threatening gesture with his own thin-bladed knife.

Marco's hopes rose a little--if he could somehow convince them to go one-on-one with him, they might have a chance. Benito would, anyway, if he could talk the kid into running for it while the gang's attention was on the fight.

"Good enough to take you, Grimaldi," he said, raising the knife defiantly. "You want to dance?"

"Maybe, maybe--" the filth-caked, scrawny gang leader replied, swaying a little where he stood, knee-deep in muddy water, wisps of greasy red hair weaving around his face.

"What's the matter, Grim? What's matter? You scared?" Marco taunted, as the blood drained out of Benito's face and his eyes got big and frightened. "I'm not a kid anymore, that it? Afraid to take me on now?"

"Marco--" Benito hissed, tugging urgently at his soggy sleeve. "Marco, I don't think that's too smart--"

The gang leader hesitated--and his own followers began jeering at him, waving their arms around and making obscene gestures. Under cover of their catcalls, Marco whispered harshly to his younger brother.

"Benito--don't argue. For once, don't. I know what I'm doing, dammit! When you figure they're all watching me, you light out for deep water. You swim--"

"No! I'm not leavin' you!"

"You'll damn well do as I say!"

"No way!"

"Shut up!" Grimaldi roared, effectively silencing all of them. He sloshed forward a pace or two and grinned. "I ain't afraid, Marco, but I ain't stupid, neither. I ain't gonna get myself cut up for nothin'--not when we can take both o' ye, an' make a little bargain with the Dandelo buyers for two nice young eunuchs--" His knife described a fast nasty low flick.

He sloshed forward another step--his last.

Marco's right hand blurred, and Grimaldi toppled sideways into the mud, wearing a rather surprised expression, a rock imbedded in his temple.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the rest of the gang surged forward like a feeding-frenzy of weasels.

* * *

Harrow lost the boy as soon as he slid into the reeds. It took him longer than he liked to get to the place where the boy had vanished. If this had been the mountains, or a forest or a city--even a weird city like Venice--he'd have had no trouble tracking the kid. Here in this foul wilderness he was at something of a loss. He floundered around in the mud, feeling unnaturally helpless. Fine vessel of the Goddess, he was--he couldn't even keep track of a dumb kid!

Then he heard the shouting; there was enough noise so that he had no trouble pinpointing the source even through the misleading echoes out there. It sounded like trouble; and where there was trouble, he somehow had no doubt he'd find the boy.

But getting there . . . was a painfully slow process; he literally had to feel his way, step by cold, slippery step. Waterweeds reached out for him, snagging him, so that he had to fight his way through them. The noise echoed ahead of him, driving him into a frenzy of anxiety as he floundered on, past treacherous washouts and deposits of mud and silty sand that sucked at him.

Until he was suddenly and unexpectedly in the clearing.

He blinked--there was the boy--no, two boys, standing at bay, side by side on a hummock of flattened reeds. They were holding off--barely--a gang of mud-smeared, tattered marsh-vermin. One boy was Marco--

Merda!

The other was Benito!

Harrow saw the pattern of the Goddess's weave. It was too much to be coincidence; first the vision, then Marco just happening to be holing up out in this Godforsaken slime-pit--and now the other boy also turning up--

But the boys weren't doing well. They'd accounted for one of the crazies, now floating bloody-headed within arm's reach of Harrow. But the others were going to overpower them before much longer. Marco had an ugly slash across his ribs that was bleeding freely and soaking into a long red stain along the front of his mud-spotted tan cotte. And even as Harrow moved to grab a piece of driftwood to use as a weapon, one of the crazies started to bring down a boathook, aimed at the younger boy's head.

"Benito!"

Harrow saw the horror in Marco's eyes as the boy saw it coming, and before Benito could turn, the older boy shoved him out of the way and took the blow himself.

The deadly hook missed, but the boy took the full force of the pole on his unprotected head. The pole broke--the boy sank to his knees--

And Harrow waded into the fray from behind, roaring in a kind of berserker rage, wielding his driftwood club like the sword of an avenging angel. The ex-Montagnard assassin used a blade by preference, but he was every bit as expert with a cudgel. His first blow landed on a skull with enough force to cave it in. Thereafter, his opponents warned and trying to fend him off, he shifted to the short and savage thrusts of an expert brawler and killer. One throat crushed; a rib cage splintered; a diaphragm ruptured--two more sent sprawling by vicious kicks. The rest fled in a panic and faded into the swamp; leaving behind four floating bodies and another crawling into the reeds coughing blood as he went.

There was a sudden absolute silence.

The younger boy had flung himself at his brother when Marco had gone down, and was holding him somewhat erect. He looked around with wild eyes when the quietude suddenly registered with him.

His eyes fastened on Harrow. He paled--

And put himself as a frail bulwark of protection between the one-time Montagnard assassin and his semi-conscious brother.

Harrow was struck dumb by a thought that approached a revelation. Those two--they'd die for each other. My own brother might have killed someone for me . . . But he wouldn't have been willing to die for me.

Coming from the mercenary background that he did, Harrow had never known much affection or loyalty. His mother had been a Swiss mercenary's whore. She'd reared the boys as a way of making a living. A poor substitute for the kind of living a daughter would have brought her, but a living. Bespi had never experienced that kind of attachment. He wouldn't have believed anyone who told him it existed. But here it was, and unmistakable. Those two boys would willingly give their lives for each other.

He held himself absolutely still, not wanting to frighten the younger boy further.

They might have remained that way forever, except for Marco. The boy began struggling to his feet, distracting his brother, so Harrow was able to transfer the crude club he held to his left hand and take a step or two closer. At that, Benito jerked around, knife at the ready, but the older boy forestalled him, putting a restraining hand on his shoulder.

Harrow met the disconcertingly direct eyes of the older boy with what he hoped was an expression of good-will.

"N-no, 'sfine, Ben--"

The words were slurred, but there was sense in the black eyes that met his.

"--'f he meant us trouble, he wouldn't have waded in to help us."

Marco used his younger brother's shoulder to hold himself upright, and held out his right hand. "Marco--" he hesitated a moment "--Valdosta . . . dunno who you are, but--thanks."

Harrow looked from the outstretched, muddy hand, to the candid, honest face, with its expression of simple, pure gratitude. He stretched out his own hand almost timidly to take the boy's, finding himself moved to the point of having an unfamiliar lump in his throat.

This boy was--good. That was the only way Harrow could put it. Honest, and good. Small wonder the Goddess wanted this thread for her loom. It was a precious golden thread, one which would lift the other colors in the weave into brightness. Harrow had never known anyone he could have called simply . . . "good."

And--so Harrow had often been told--the good die young.

Resolve flared in eyes. Not this one. As an assassin, one of the most deadly killers the Visconti had ever unleashed for the Montagnard cause, he had felt an almost sexual pleasure when he had fulfilled his missions. When he'd killed. Now a similar but richer feeling came, displacing the old. He was the vessel of the Goddess. And he was full, full to overflowing. He was only distantly aware of the impression of a great winged shadow, passing over all of them. The Montagnards brought death to serve their purposes. The Goddess conserved life. Purpose and reasons flooded into Harrow. Not this one! Death will not take him while I watch over him.