The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey

  Manfred shrugged. "They'll never notice if we don't. Erik, I've a need to accumulate a few sins to confess."

  Erik shook his head, hiding a reluctant smile behind his hand. "Get up, before I turf you off the bench."

  They were crossing the campo, under the eyes of the bunches of students still buzzing with hushed talk, when a woman came running up to them.

  People, Erik had noticed—particularly the Venetians—tended to avoid the Knights. That was hardly surprising. The likes of Von Stublau were likely to knock anyone who got in their way into the nearest canal. So a young woman running up to them was something of a surprise. To judge by Manfred's expression—even if by her dress she was a serving-maid—it was a welcome change. She was pretty enough.

  She curtseyed hastily, nearly dropping the bundle she bore. "Pardon your honors, the students says you are the ones who saved M'lord Calenti?"

  Manfred bowed. "We are, signorina."

  "Ooh! From demons seventeen feet tall with horns and lots of teeth! And dancing naked witches with six breasts—like dogs. And I heard the whole building was destroyed and Legions of Cherubim, not that I understand why fat baby angels can fight well, but Father Pietro always tells us they do. Then there were those with trumpets and the whole city shook. And the winged lion itself stirred in the piazza. And there was a rain of blood—" Her eyes sparkled, as she tilted her head, quizzical for more juicy details.

  Even Manfred was gobstopped. "Er. No . . . It wasn't quite like that. . . ."

  Well, if they weren't going to oblige, she'd help out. "And poor Lord Calenti, him so handsome and all, he fought like a tiger before he got so burned by the devils. They burned the clothes right off his back, with their pitchforks and I don't know why they say that because surely it must have got the clothes in the front, but that would have got his privates, or at least showed his smalls and he has such elegant knitted smalls." She giggled coyly. "Not that a girl like me would know anything about that."

  "Er," Erik began.

  That was quite enough interruption. "So when Signora Elena said she needed someone to take m'lord his best nightshirt, because he was too sick to move, and Silvia and Maria were both too scared to come for fear of demons, and all the boys at the Accademia ogling them, and I don't know why because Maria's been walking out with that rough Samarro boy—and what's a few noble students compared to that?—I said I would take it. Only then Signora couldn't find it and I've had to bring him his second best and it hasn't got nearly such nice embroidery, and now I don't know where to find him, and none of these students want to tell me."

  They probably couldn't get a word in edgeways, thought Erik. "The chapel," he said, hastily, pointing.

  "Thank your honors," she said, curtseying again. Then, peering at Manfred, "You're awfully handsome, your honor. And so big, too." Squeaking and giggling at her own temerity, she scuttled off towards the chapel.

  * * *

  "It's not that funny." Manfred shook his head at Erik, whose steel armor—proof against great dark magics—was in danger of being shaken apart internally.

  Erik snorted, his shoulders still shaking. "You fancied her and she fancied you. I don't see the problem. Just the girl for you to take home to your mother."

  Manfred raised his eyes to heaven. "Hah. Funny, funny. Icelander sense of humor. Cowpat in the face."

  "That's Vinlanders'," grinned Erik. In the aftermath of the terrible encounter, and with the grappa burning in his veins, he was feeling unusually silly. "Icelanders are more likely to put sheep droppings in your stew."

  "Huh. I'll watch out for 'olives' in ragout while you're arou—" Manfred stopped suddenly.

  His face had gone serious. "Erik, that's the third victim that we know of that had just lost a piece of clothing. Remember old Maggiore was complaining about his cassock. And that coiner's housekeeper and his favorite cap. And now a nightshirt."

  Erik's felt the blood drain from his face. "I've heard of this. Mammets with the victim's hair and clothing . . . We better tell Sachs."

  Manfred pulled a wry face. "If we can persuade him to listen."

  Erik shrugged and began to walk on. "If not, we can perhaps get Calenti to give us a lead on who could have got hold of one of his nightshirts."

  "Do you think he's going to live?" asked Manfred. "Those are major burns."

  Erik nodded. "He'll live. Just as long as he is in the care of that priest. He's a good healer, that man."

  Chapter 52

  Maria stared at the two golden hairs in her work-calloused hand. She stared at them, not for the first time, or the third time, or the thirty-third time. It couldn't be true.

  Both hairs came from Caesare's pillow. And they certainly weren't his—or hers.

  They didn't even come from the same head! One was much coarser, yellower and had a dark root; the other finer and more wavy.

  There had to be some other explanation. There had to be. Only . . . it was hard to work out what it was. Her heart and mind felt as if they were tearing each other apart. This wasn't the first time she'd been suspicious. But this was the first time she'd had hard evidence.

  "Whatcha starin' at, Maria?" Benito had come in, unobserved. She had thought she had the place to herself. The little scamp had probably come in the third-story window. He'd have to give that up one day. He had turned fifteen over the winter and he wasn't so little any more.

  Hastily she thrust her hand into her skirt pocket before Benito could see. "None of your business!" she snapped.

  Benito looked hurt. "Hey, come on, Maria. You can trust me. I carried that 'cargo' to Giaccomo's for you, right? And I got a bloody nose from Jewel as well as my ribs nearly kicked in—and I still got it there for you. Not one lira missing."

  She felt herself floundering. He wasn't a bad kid, really. She had to talk to someone. If she talked to one of the cousins . . . they'd try to kill Caesare. Benito—and Marco too—had proved themselves both trustworthy and honest. But Marco was so . . . so good, even if he was nearer her own age. Benito she could at least talk to, about this sort of thing. He was more worldly than Marco. Marco's interest in girls was real but so—innocent. Sending them love poems! On the other hand, she'd seen Benito doing some experiments in heavy kissing with one of the Sarispelli girls. Those two girls were heading one way. . . .

  She took a deep breath and rushed her fences. "Benito, do you think Caesare could be seeing some other woman?"

  He looked as if she'd just smacked him in the face with a wet fish. But only for a moment. "Na! There ain't no one in Venice as pretty as you."

  She snorted and took a swing at him. She'd noticed that hesitation. But his reply still gave her a smile. "You were born to be hung, Benito. I ain't pretty! Now, according to that Sarispelli girl, if only you could kiss as sweet as you talk, you'd be inside the pants of every girl in town."

  * * *

  Benito felt himself blushing. He had thought that he didn't do that anymore. Still, she'd spotted that hesitation. Merda. Women didn't feel the same way about this as men did. Well, except for Marco. But Caesare just did what a real man did. Played the field. At the same time he also felt for Maria. She so wanted Caesare. But there was no way she'd keep him except as a part-time lover.

  And the funny thing was that Maria Garavelli was pretty. She was more than just pretty. She was . . . Maria. Tough as nails. She had to be, as a woman alone, working small cargos on the canals. But there was a gentle side to her too. She really was quite something, compared to, say, Lisa Sarispelli who was only a year younger than Maria, but good only for kissing, and . . . well a bit of fumbling experimentation. Maria was worth ten of her. Maria was working so hard with her speech, and getting Marco to teach her to read now . . . All to try to raise herself up to Caesare's level. To keep him. Regretfully, Benito knew that there was just no way she could do it. Caesare . . . well, he and Marco owed him. But Benito could sense that Caesare had ambitions that went a long way beyond a canaler wife. It would all come apart one day. And Be
nito didn't want to be around when it happened. Best to try to lead off the subject.

  "I'm workin' on the kissing," Benito said, with a shrug. "I mean, how's a fellow supposed to get better without getting some experience?"

  Maria snorted. Benito noticed she was smiling, however. "Just be careful it don't end up with her up the spout or you with the French pox, 'Nito."

  She walked off. When she was well gone, Benito exhaled. Long and slow. He'd better have a word with Caesare about this. Men had to stick together.

  * * *

  Maria was too preoccupied to be keeping a proper lookout. Normally this was what she did well. Nobody could sneak up on her. It was a lesson a woman learned quickly out on the water . . . or else. Especially on a foggy morning like this. She knew she wasn't looking out properly . . .

  But Caesare's infidelity was preying on her mind. Should she confront him? Did she hope it was just a once-off? Just pretend it had never happened. So many times she'd said to herself: Just enjoy now. Don't even dream about tomorrow. Just be grateful for what you have got, now. He was so beautiful. So refined. She was just a canal girl. . . .

  Something bumped into her boat. Maria nearly dropped her paddle and jumped overboard. To her relief it was only a hooded girl in an even shabbier gondola than her own.

  "Idiot! Look where you're going!" snapped Maria.

  The girl held up a hand apologetically. "Sorry. This fog. I misjudged the distance. I just wanted to ask you something."

  Maria had placed her now. Working nights—as she did sometimes for Giaccomo's cargos—she'd seen her before. Also, lately, in the early mornings. She was the one the canalers called "the Spook." Someone who sculled a gondola like she was canal born and bred, but nobody knew her. She was nobody's family. Looking at that dress under the hooded cloak, Maria guessed it was because she wasn't anyone's family.

  The dress was old, but had once been very good. Too good for canal. And word was out on the water that you stayed clear of her. Word was she had connections that could get you hurt. Strega. Maria tensed. She really didn't need any more trouble now.

  "Yeah? What?" she asked warily. She can't be more than a year older than me, thought Maria. And I've got bigger shoulders. I could tip her into the water and hit her over the head with a paddle. In this fog, nobody'd be the wiser. Hear what it was she wanted and if it was trouble . . . In her heart of hearts she wondered if she could do it.

  The girl smiled uneasily. "Well, um, you go to Giaccomo's quite a lot."

  Here came trouble. Maria tensed. Nodded but didn't say anything. Messing with Giaccomo's cargos meant trouble. And you didn't cross Giaccomo.

  The girl continued. "I'm looking for a party that goes there sometimes. Only . . . I don't want to go there myself. Could you give him a message from me?"

  Maria relaxed, slightly. "Depends. Who?"

  "Well, his name is Benito. He's a kid—about fifteen, maybe sixteen. Dark curly hair. Round face. He's a runner with Ventuccio."

  Suspicion leapt into Maria's mind. Was this woman somehow tied to whoever had tried to kill Marco? With the mess their mother had been involved in? Could be. Could be! It would explain the oddities.

  "Might know him. Why?"

  Even in the fog, Maria could see that the other girl was blushing. "Just . . . wanted to see him. That's all," she said airily "He's . . . he's a friend of mine. I'll be around Campo San Felice between seven and half-past most nights."

  Somehow Maria restrained the bubble of laughter. That Benito! She'd have to warn him to stay clear of this girl. "Yeah. I'll tell him. Who do I say? Benito's got so many girls chasing him he'll need a clue."

  The girl shook her head. "He's a kid! I mean . . . um . . . just tell him Kat wants to see him. It's not about business or anything," she said hastily. "Just . . . want to ask him something."

  "Uh huh. Kat who?" Benito wasn't that much of a kid.

  The girl looked faintly alarmed and taken aback. "Just Kat. Er. Kat Felluci."

  * * *

  Kat was surprised to see the canaler's eyes narrow like that. Then she remembered. It had been all over the canals. What a stupid name to choose for herself . . . it had just come from silly daydreams and just not being able to come up with a different name on the spur of the moment. She flicked her oar and sent the gondola off into the fog to hide her burning face.

  * * *

  Caesare hadn't been in when Maria had rowed her reluctant way to the water-door. She still hadn't made up her mind what to do about Caesare, but she'd been bracing herself to meet him. So—of course—he wasn't there. Both Marco and Benito were, however.

  It set her off-balance not having Caesare there. All day she'd been making up her mind just what to say to him. And then changing it. She hadn't even had time to wonder too much about the girl's choice of surname. It obviously wasn't hers. . . . It could be coincidence. It wasn't that rare a name. Or she might know Marco.

  "Met one of your girlfriends today, Benito."

  Benito looked suitably embarrassed. "Aw. She's not really that. She's just . . ."

  "Someone to practice kissing on?" she teased. "I didn't know about this one. She's a big girl, too."

  Benito looked startled. "Huh? Who?"

  Maria gave a wry smile. "Kat. Or that is what she calls herself."

  "Kat?" Benito looked puzzled.

  "Wears a hood," said Maria, taking a glass of wine from Marco. He was considerate like that. "And works nights, mostly. Girl from a good family by the way she dresses."

  Light dawned on Benito. "Oh, that Kat! She's no girlfriend of mine!" he added hastily.

  Marco looked amused. "I didn't know you were into the petticoat-line yet, Benito."

  Benito looked a little shamefaced about growing up, thought Maria. "Um. Well, Kat's no girlfriend of mine. I've just done some work for her."

  Maria shook her head. "Word is out on the water that she ain't someone you should mix with, Benito. Trouble. Anyway, she said you could find her at Campo San Felice between seven and half-past most evenings."

  "I know she's to be steered clear of now, but, well, I didn't know then," admitted Benito with shrug. "Valentina and Claudia both warned me off."

  Marco's amusement had entirely drained away. "If they did that I hope you listened to them, and have stayed away from her?"

  Benito looked uncomfortable. "I figured out she was the kind of girl you don't mess around with, but well, you know when I had that spot of bother with Jewel?"

  "Uh huh."

  "Well after that marsh-loco showed up and beat him to a pulp, I was running on, but kind of sore and a bit spooked. And there she was and she owed me a favor, maybe. So I got her to give me a lift to Giaccomo's. She knew exactly where the Schiopettieri were working."

  Maria swallowed her wine. "That's scary in itself. And that explains why she's looking for you at Giaccomo's. Anyway, do you know when . . . Caesare will be back?" She was irritated at herself for allowing that hesitation and hurt to show in her voice when she mentioned his name.

  "Won't be in tonight," said Benito.

  Maria was proud of her casual tone this time around. "Oh. Well, I'm pooped. I'm going to catch some shut-eye. He didn't say where he was going, did he?"

  Benito laughed. "He never does, Maria."

  She nodded and headed up the stairs.

  * * *

  Benito did however know where he was meeting Caesare. He had work to do for him. He felt a little uncomfortable about the evasions. Caesare had said it was best to give her time to get over it. And Benito supposed he knew. But Maria, trying to keep the misery out of her voice when she said Caesare's name, made him feel uncomfortable. Even a little miserable himself.

  "Benito, who is this 'Kat'?" asked Marco. "And what's bothering Maria?"

  "Kat? Just a girl I know. Got the sharpest tongue in Venice. I ran into her by accident, brother, and I'm keeping clear of her. I'll stay away from Giaccomo's for the next while."

  "And Maria?"

  Benito s
hrugged his shoulders. "She's worried about competition."

  Marco pinched his lips. "Oh." He sighed. "I don't know what to do about it, because we owe him. But it's not right, brother."

  Benito shrugged again. "A man's got to do what a man's got to do, Marco. And it's not our affair, huh?"

  Marco sighed again. "It's not right."

  Benito felt uncomfortable—as he frequently did when Marco drew the moral line. "Yeah. Well, nothing we can do about it. It's kind of your fault, Marco." That was unfair and he knew it. Caesare had always played the field. Just that Angelina in the last few months had been somewhat "in-your-face" to Marco. But that too seemed to be tapering off. As if the sheer heat of it was burning it out. "Anyway, I've got to go out. I'll see you later," he said hastily.