Shadow of the Lion hoa-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  The waiter led them all to a tiny room, with barely room for more than a table and a few chairs in it--but it had a door and the door shut softly behind them. Aldanto seated himself at the table and put down his wine glass. The way he positioned himself, the boys had to stand with him seated between them and the door. The lantern that lit the room was on the wall behind Aldanto's head and made a sunblaze out of his hair.

  "I'm waiting," was all he said.

  "Milord, my brother's got information that you might be able to use--it might be you and him know the same people. We want to sell it."

  He poked Marco with his elbow. Marco shook himself into awareness.

  "Information?" Aldanto did not look amused. "What on earth could you two have that would be of any use to me?"

  "Milord, somebody thinks it's important. My brother has been having to hide out in the marshes because somebody thought it was important enough to kill my mother, but she passed it on to Marco here. See, we know who you are. We know where you're from. We reckoned you would be the right man to know what he's got. And we figured you'd be the best man to pay our price--and that's to keep him safe after he's told you."

  The blond man began to look angry. "If this is some kind of a scam--"

  "Brother," Marco said clearly and distinctly, "the viper strikes." It was the password of those in the service of the Milanese Duke Visconti.

  Aldanto, who had just taken a mouthful of wine, coughed and practically choked.

  Marco took the most recent of his precious copies of The Message from his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

  * * *

  Hazed with fatigue, Marco was blind to Aldanto's reactions--but Benito wasn't.

  Within a few moments, Benito had figured Aldanto was not pleased with their recognition of him as a Milanese agent. Moments after that he knew by the worried look that Aldanto wasn't working for Duke Visconti anymore.

  This required recalculation.

  Then Aldanto's mouth began to twitch as he read the paper Marco had given him.

  "Where did you come by this?"

  "I told you," Benito said, stalling for time. "Our mama was something with the Milanese--passed their messages and whatall. Except somebody figured that out an' came for her, and Marco ran for the marshes to hide out with the last thing she got. Figured things were fine until he got jumped out there a day or so ago, and it weren't just any nightbird, it was an assassin. We are Valdosta; you might know the name--you might know people Mama knew--Ventuccio. You going help us out?"

  "Valdosta. Well . . . well . . ." Aldanto pointed at the paper. "Nothing here for me," he said. His mouth was amused but his eyes were hard. "What you've got is an out-of-date infiltration schedule. Useless. And worthless."

  * * *

  Marco's mind went blank. All the hope--the plans--all in ruins; and the man Aldanto didn't seem the least bit interested in helping, much less being the shining rescuer Marco had prayed for.

  "But--somebody must think I know something," he said desperately, "or why try to kill me? And why send an assassin? They could have hired one of the marsh-gangs, easy." Now all he wanted was to be able to think of something useful to Aldanto; something worth the cost of protecting both himself and Benito. It was far too late now to go back to the Jesolo marsh. "Maybe--maybe I know something someone doesn't want out--like a name, or a face--can't you use that?"

  "Absolutely--Marco never forgets anything," Benito chimed in. "That's why Mama took him everywhere with her. He knows all kinds of things--things maybe still worth knowing."

  "Like I remember you, milord. You were with Mama's man, Carlo Sforza--it was--around the beginning of October, I think, about nine years ago. You were wearing brown velvet, and you and Carlo talked about the bribes your father'd been paying . . ." Marco trailed off at the grim set of Aldanto's mouth.

  "Besides--damned Milanese are out after us along with you," Benito interrupted, stepping hard on Marco's foot. "Mama would have sold us to slavers if they'd told her to. Duke Visconti never got us anything but trouble, and I bet it's him as sent the assassin. You need something, well, I can get it, or I know who can; I can get things done, too--get people disappeared--get you disappeared too, only less permanent. We've got connections you can't get from the Case Vecchie or the boatpeople. You need us, milord--about as much as we need you."

  "Interesting. Valdosta . . ." Aldanto said, then said nothing more, obviously thinking hard. Marco turned on Benito, and tugged him into a corner of the little room.

  "What the hell--"

  "Truth, damn it!" Benito whispered harshly. "It's all true and you know it! Mama used you--why do you think she never paid me any attention? Theodoro's folks knew what was going on; told me too. Told me it was probably Duke Visconti's people that got Mama."

  "Uh--"

  "That's why they turned me out, couple of years ago. They were afraid, and I don't blame 'em. Lucky I ran into Claudia and Valentina."

  "They're thieves! I know thieves cant when I hear it!"

  " 'Course they're thieves! How d'you think I came by all that stuff for you? Where'd you think it came from? The Moon? I've been living in bloody attics for two years now! Look, brother--I've mostly given up thieving--the odds aren't in it. I'm a messenger now. But I couldn't get stuff for you, and feed me, on what I make running, and I wouldn't leave you without. So I stole. And I still steal. And I'll keep doin' it. 'Cause you're worth it--like Mama wasn't. Tell you what else. This Aldanto may have been Montagnard before, but he damn sure ain't now! Or didn't you notice him have a fit when you hit him with the password? Our best bet is to figure something he needs bad."

  The fog began to clear from Marco's head, as Benito's words and his memory started to come together. Certain things were becoming a lot clearer than they'd ever been before.

  Item: Chiano and Sophia had been trying to tell him--in gentler terms--exactly what Benito was telling him now. If three so very different people--one of them his own flesh and blood--were saying the same things about Duke Visconti and the Montagnard cause, and Mama's involvement with it, well it followed that he had probably been dead wrong and dreaming all these years.

  Item: stripped of the fairy-tale glamour Mama had decked them in, Montagnards were not in the least attractive. Take the rhetoric of united Christian Empire away, and they became little more than highly trained, professional killers.

  Item: they were now alone with this unhappy professional assassin, who was probably thinking that no one would miss them.

  Marco looked over Benito's shoulder at Aldanto, who was contemplating them with a face of stone. Marco's blood ran colder than the spring-melt water that the Brenta carried down from the Alps.

  Item: they were a liability. And Aldanto was looking at them like someone who couldn't afford liabilities.

  * * *

  Benito suddenly broke off, seeing Marco's face turn pale and still. "Brother--you all right?" he whispered, unable to fathom why Marco should suddenly look as if the great Lion of San Marco had come to life and confronted him. He knew that some of what he'd said was bound to come as a shock to Marco, but he hadn't thought any of it was enough to turn him white to the ears!

  He shook Marco a little, beginning to feel worried. The way Marco was staring at Aldanto, sort of glassy-eyed--it wasn't like him. Marco was always the quick one, the alert one--except--

  Benito went cold all over. Except when Marco had been sick . . .

  * * *

  Marco was watching Aldanto's eyes, the only things in his face that were showing any change. They were growing harder; and Marco's blood acquired ice crystals.

  Item: they were quite likely to be dead very soon. Benito, with the panache of a fourteen-year-old unable to believe in his own mortality, had led them into dangerous and unfriendly hands--and with no way to escape. Aldanto was between them and the door, in a room barely big enough to hold all of them and the table and chairs.

  Looking at those calculating eyes, Marco knew exactly what their fat
e was going to be. They had, at most, a few more minutes.

  He forced himself to smile at his brother; he couldn't protect him from what was coming. "Nothing--just--you're right. About all of it. I've been plain stupid."

  Benito shrugged. "No big deal. Everybody makes mistakes, and hell, I probably wouldn't believe anything bad anybody said about you, either."

  "And I never told you how much I missed you, half." The old nickname made Benito grin. "That was even stupider. We're the team, right? So, from now on it's going be you and me--aye? All the way."

  Benito dropped his pretense of adulthood and threw both arms around his brother in an affection-starved hug. Marco tightened his own arms around Benito's shoulder and stared at Aldanto, trying to beg with his eyes, and figuring that it was a lost cause before he started.

  But to Marco's surprise, Caesare suddenly cleared his throat. A little sound, but the older boy started as violently as if a gun had gone off in his ear.

  "You say your mother had connections with Ventuccio?"

  Marco stared, unable to get his mouth to work. It was too much to comprehend--he'd expected the knife, and he'd only hoped Aldanto was good enough to make it fast and relatively painless. And then--this--

  His ears roared, and little black spots danced in the air between his eyes and Aldanto's face.

  "Ventuccio?" he heard himself say stupidly, as his knees suddenly liquefied on him.

  * * *

  Benito felt Marco start to collapse, and held him up by main force. Oh, God, please--no!

  The last time Marco had done this, he'd missed the meetings for the next month; and when he finally showed up, he was pounds thinner, with eyes gone all hollow, and a rasping cough that lasted for weeks. Please, God--he begged, struggling to keep Marco on his feet long enough to pull a chair under him, don't let it be fever, he might not make it this time--and we're almost home free--

  * * *

  "Milord, just let me get him sat--milord, he's all right!" Marco heard Benito over the roaring in his ears, over the scrape of a chair on the floor "You don't--milord, you don't need--"

  Something shoved up against the back of his legs; hands were under his armpits letting him down easy, the same strong hands then pushing his head down between his legs.

  "Stay that way for a bit--" Aldanto's voice. And the roaring went away, his eyes cleared. When his head stopped spinning he looked up. Aldanto sat on his heels beside him, Benito looking frantic, trying to get between them without touching the man. "Better?"

  "I--" Marco managed. "I--"

  Aldanto took his chin in one hand, tilted his eyes into the light, scrutinizing them closely.

  "I'm sorry, milord, I'm all right," Marco whispered, thinking, Daren't, daren't show weakness in front of this man! "Honest, I'm all right."

  "You're not--but you will be."

  Ignoring Benito's worried protests (Great, thought Marco dizzily, now he realizes we could be in trouble), Aldanto went to the table and brought his glass of wine to Marco, who took it with hands that shook so hard the wine slopped. Poison? No--not likely. Not when he'd had the chance to kill them easily and hadn't. An assassin as physically capable as Aldanto so obviously was, wouldn't bother with anything other than a blade. Not, at least, dealing with two poor boys in a place like this.

  "Get yourself on the outside of that."

  Marco sipped, the alcoholic warmth spreading from his stomach to the rest of his body. His hands stopped shaking, slowly.

  "When did you last eat?"

  "Eat?" Marco was taken totally by surprise by the question and the funny half smile on Aldanto's face. "Uh--I don't remember."

  "Then it's been too long. Small wonder you're falling at my feet. They're reserved for women, you know."

  As Marco tried to adjust to the fact that Aldanto had just made a joke, the blond man turned to Benito. He held out a piece of silver. "Go out there and get some bread and risi e bisi."

  Benito scampered, and returned with a steaming bowl moments later. Some customer was going to have to wait a little longer for his dinner. The thick green rice-and-pea soup was set down, and Benito scampered off to fetch bread and a bowl of shaved Parmesan. Aldanto held out the spoon to Marco.

  Marco stared at it as though it was alive, not taking it.

  "Go on, eat." Aldanto pried one of Marco's hands off the glass and pressed the spoon into it. "Marco--"

  God and Saints, they were saved. Marco's head spun--this time with relief.

  "About the Ventuccio--"

  Marco took the bread which Benito had now brought. He dipped it into the soup and took a tiny bite. He swallowed around a lump in his throat, and began.

  * * *

  When Marco had finished telling Aldanto all he knew and most of what he guessed, and when his knees could hold him upright again, Aldanto considered them both carefully for several long moments. Marco took advantage of his preoccupation to finish every drop of soup and every crumb of bread.

  "Something must be done with you two," Aldanto said at last. "The safest you can be is in plain sight. And Ventuccio can do that better than anyone."

  Marco didn't argue with him--after all, he'd just proved how poor his own judgment was. Aldanto pondered something silently for a very long time, while a young riot of shouting youths passed by outside and moved on.

  "I think it's not too late to get speech of Ventuccio," Aldanto said abruptly. "It's Solstice, after all. Come along."

  Before Marco could protest, before Benito could do anything more than look stunned, Aldanto had chivvied them out of the door and onto the walkway. Benito, for once, looked appropriately apprehensive, but that could easily have been because he'd run errands for Ventuccio and reckoned on being recognized there.

  Aldanto had not been speaking rhetorically, for a brisk walk brought them straight to Casa Ventuccio proper.

  At least he didn't take them to the main door of the great house. Instead, he led them down to a water-door, where he tapped out a sequence of knocks, and was answered.

  The man who opened the door frowned ferociously when he saw who it was, but at least he listened to Aldanto's whispered words and, after a moment, nodded.

  "I'll see about it," the man growled, and allowed them, grudgingly, past the door to stand waiting in the damp entry while he went away somewhere. Presently, he came back, still looking displeased, but jerked his head as a sign that they should follow. He led them down long, unlit halls of wood and stone, and finally into a room piled with ledgers that was so brightly lit Marco was blinking tears back.

  Now they fronted a man Aldanto called by name, and that man was coldly angry. "You have a lot of balls, coming here, Caesare," the man spat. "And for calling me away from my guests on a night of the Feast--"

  "Granted," Aldanto said coldly. "However, I think you happen to take your honor and your pledged word fairly seriously, and I have just learned that you happen to have an unpaid debt and a broken promise you might want to discharge. These boys are Valdosta. Marco and Benito Valdosta."

  Marco had rarely seen words act so powerfully on someone. The man's anger faded into guilt.

  "I've brought them here," Aldanto continued deliberately, "so that we can even some scales. You made a promise to Duke Dell'este, and didn't keep it. I--lost you some people. Both these kids are useful."

  Now the man looked skeptical, as if he doubted Aldanto's ability to judge much of anything.

  "Milord," Benito piped up, "you've used me, I know. Ask your people. I'm a messenger--a good one. I don't take bribes, I'm fast--"

  "You could take him on as a staff runner and train him for bargework as he grows into it. And the older boy clerks," Aldanto continued.

  "You don't expect me to take that on faith!"

  Marco took a deep breath and interrupted. "Set me a problem, milord. Nothing easy. You'll see."

  The man sniffed derisively, then rattled off something fast; a complicated calculation involving glass bottles--cost, expected breakage, transpor
tation and storage, ending with the question of how much to ask for each in order to receive a twenty-percent profit margin.

  Marco closed his eyes, went into his calculating-trance, and presented the answer quickly enough to leave the man with a look of surprise on his face.

  "Well!" said the man. "For once . . . I don't suppose he can write, too?"

  Aldanto had a funny little smile. "Give him something to write with." He seemed to be enjoying the man's discomfiture.

  Marco was presented with a quill pen and an old bill of lading. He appropriated a ledger to press on, and promptly copied the front onto the back, and in a much neater hand.