Benito finally got control of his larynx. "Who told you that?"
"Maria. Marco told her."
Benito shook his head. "Marco is the ultimate prize idiot. He needs a minder."
"Accidents happen," said Kat, stiffly.
Benito snorted. "Not unless Marco is the male equivalent of the Virgin Mary. And I've known him all my life. He's only half a saint. The other half is pure idiot, I promise."
He seemed so absolutely certain. "So who is the father then?" Kat demanded.
Benito looked at her, then away; then shook his head. "Let's just say Marco is paying his debts."
She had to know. "Benito, I'm not joking. If I have to spend the whole of the Casa Montescue's strongbox on a truth-spell, I'll get that answer. There isn't much in the strong box—but we can borrow." And some things are more important than money.
Benito shrugged. "It's too late, Kat. I know Marco. It is a question of honor. He's made his decision. He'll live by it."
Kat sighed. She should have trusted her heart and gone and talked him out of it. "He made it after he got that stupid letter from me." Well, marriages could be annulled. It wasn't easy, but once she had the real father . . . "I need to know who the father is, Benito. I'll find out. Every Strega scryer in this town relies on us. So you might as well tell me."
Benito shook his head. "Who did Marco tell that he was the father? There's your answer. And it is no help to you, Kat."
Marco told Maria. . . . "Caesare?" she asked, weakly.
Benito nodded. "After Marco's silly love poems made Caesare know the Case Vecchie girl had the hots for him, he made a move."
She'd even seen them together, she now realized. At that ridotto—true, Angelina had been masked, but the hair was recognizable. "Maria?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Doesn't know. I mean, she was after Caesare about him having another woman. But she doesn't know who, or even for sure. Hey—you leave her out of this, Kat! Look, there is no way the Dorma would have taken Aldanto. He's an ex-Montagnard. Forget about Marco. All you can do is wreck his life, and wreck Maria's. I know my brother. He won't back out. I'm sorry . . ."
Kat's head was whirling. She put it in her hands.
"Have some wine," said Benito gently, pushing the glass to her.
She took the wine. The harsh ruby liquid slopped a little. "You're his brother!?" There was a small sameness about the mouth, and in mannerisms . . .
Benito nodded. "I don't think we have the same father," he said wryly. "But yes, I'm Marco's brother. And believe me, Kat. Best thing you can do is leave him to get on with life with Angelina Dorma."
"Your name is Valdosta?"
Benito nodded. "Benito Valdosta. But I don't advertise it. After Mama was killed we went into hiding. Marco took off into the Jesolo. I lived in an attic and was a sneak thief. Then someone tried to kill Marco, about a year ago. Assassin. Professional. So I took him to Caesare."
"Someone tried to kill him?"
"Yes. Marco kind of assumed it was someone from the Council of Ten. But later we decided maybe it was the Montagnards."
Kat closed her eyes. "Dear God!" That was Grandpapa!
"He didn't even get hurt," said Benito reassuringly, but she wasn't listening anymore. She stared into nothing for a moment. Then she stood up.
"Don't ever tell anyone your name," she said harshly. "Never. Not anyone. Or go to Dorma for protection. And whatever you do, don't tell Aldanto." And she walked away.
* * *
Giaccomo was watching them out the corner of his eye, so Benito was doing his damnedest to act virtuous.
"—I can't believe it," Mercutio said, leaning back in his chair against the wall, and sipping at his brandy, his eyes alight with laughter. Jeppo cleared away their plates, with an odd look at Benito, but didn't say anything. Benito concentrated on being very well behaved. This was Giaccomo's after all, and if he did anything, Maria would hear about it. He wasn't even drinking brandy, though Mercutio had offered it, he was sticking to wine. Watered wine. He'd have a halo at this rate.
Outside Giaccomo's open door there were canalers lounging on his porch, mugs and glasses in hand, enjoying the balmy evening. He and Mercutio had the taproom pretty much to themselves.
"I just can't believe it'" Mercutio repeated, chuckling. "I leave this town, and the very next day all hell breaks loose! And me not here to help it along!" He shook his head mockingly. "I can see I've got a lot of lost time to make up—"
Suddenly he leaned forward, and his tone grew conspiratorial. "That's where you come in, kid. If you want in. Because I need a lookout and a housebreaker for a little piece of work."
Benito brightened. "'Course I want in!" He replied softly. "What'd you take me for? What's the action?"
Mercutio's eyes flamed with glee. "Who's the richest, dumbest man in this city?"
Benito snorted. "No contest. The Doge."
"And what does he love above power, wealth, women—everything?"
"His clockwork toys," Benito supplied.
"Now—what would he do, do you think, if he'd gone and built a wonderful toy just to send to Rome as a kind of present for the Grand Metropolitan—and he'd sent it to the jeweler to get all gilded and prettied up, and get sparklies put on it—and somebody—borrowed it? And told him he'd get it back only if he left a great deal of money in a particular place—and didn't tell anyone about it. And told him if he did bring in the Schiopettieri, he'd get his beautiful clockwork toy back in a million pieces?" Mercutio settled back in his chair with a smile of smug satisfaction.
"He's just dumb enough to do it," Benito acknowledged, answering Mercutio's smile with one of his own. "When and where?"
"Tonight, if you're game. Jeweler just opposite the bridge."
"Schiopettieri?" Benito asked.
"Got a distractor. Gave Jewel Destre a Turkish-made coat like this'n when he drooled over it. He thought I was groveling." Mercutio chuckled. "Then this afternoon I sent a couple messages to him and Giancarlo Polo concerning the coat and Jewel's manhood. Send one more and I'll guarantee they'll play knife-talk on the bridge tonight."
Benito chuckled evilly. "An' if anybody sees anythin', all they'll notice is the coat. So if anybody comes lookin' for a thief—they go for Jewel. Si. What is this thing of the Doge's anyway? A timepiece?"
Mercutio snickered. "I heard it's a clockwork whale he put together for his bath."
Benito snickered at the notion of a grown man playing with bath toys. "Let's do it," he said.
Chapter 72
There were more ways in to any building than by the door, and Benito knew most of them. He and Mercutio began their operation with him going over the roof and down an air-shaft. The air-shaft was very narrow. A year ago, Benito would have slid down it easily. Today—even though Benito didn't have an ounce of fat on him, he was already showing the stocky and muscular physique of his presumed father, Carlo Sforza. It was a tight fit.
But the air-shaft gave access to a window that was never locked. The window gave on a storeroom holding cleaning supplies, and the storeroom was shared by both the jeweler in question and his neighbor, a perfumer.
Benito opened the outer door to Mercutio, just as all hell broke loose on the bridge.
Mercutio flitted in, Benito out. Crouched in the shadows by the door he kept eyes and ears peeled for the approach of anyone. Innocents could make as much trouble as Schiopettieri if they noticed the boy in the shadows, or that the door was cracked open.
Across the canal on the bridge, torches were flaring, waving wildly; there was clamor of young male voices, shouting, cursing. A girl's scream cut across the babble like a knife through cheese—a scream of outrage and anger, not panic, and the hoarse croak of a young male in pain followed it.
And Benito saw, weaving through the walkways and heading up the stairs to a bridge, a string of bobbing lights moving at the speed of a man doing a fast trot.
Schiopettieri.
"Mercutio!" he whispered. A
slim shadow flitted out the door, shutting it with agonizing care to avoid the clicking of the latch, a sound that would carry, even with the riot going on across the water. A bundle under Mercutio's arm told Benito everything he needed to know.
He grinned, as Mercutio took off at a trot, heading away from the Rialto bridge. Benito lagged a bit; his job to guard Mercutio's backtrail, delay any Schiopettieri.
Perfect, he thought with exultation. Worked this 'un timed as perfect as any of the Doge's contraptions—
And that was when everything fell apart.
People were looking out of windows, coming out of compartments with walkway entrances, moving toward the bridge, attracted to the ruckus like rats attracted to food. He and Mercutio had counted on that, too—it would cover their trail—
An old man, looking angry, popped out of a shop door in his nightshirt, halfway between Mercutio and the bridge. He was holding something down by his side; Benito didn't even think about what it might be, just noted his presence and his anger, and planned to avoid him. He looked like he'd been disturbed and wasn't happy about it—he probably had a cudgel, and he'd take out his pique on anyone jostling him. A lantern carried by someone hurrying toward the fight flared up and caught the gaudy patchwork of the Turkish coat Mercutio wore.
And the man let out an angry yell.
"You punk bastard!" he screamed, raising his hand. "Break my windows, will you! I'll give you 'protection'—"
Too late, Benito saw what the man held was a matchlock arquebus. Too late he yelled at Mercutio to duck.
Too late, as the arquebus went off with a roar, right in Mercutio's astonished face. His head exploded, blood fountaining as he fell.
Benito screamed, his cry lost in the screams coming from the bridge, the screams of those around the madman and his victim. "Mercutio!" he shrieked, and tried to push his way toward his friend, past people running away from the carnage. But something seized on him from behind, and when he struggled, hit him once, scientifically, behind the right ear, sending him into darkness.
* * *
He woke with an awful headache, and looked up into the eyes of the eagle. When his head stopped whirling quite so much he realized that it was the man with the solid line of eyebrow . . . who had seen him and Kat hide from the Schiopettieri and return to retrieve that package. Who had chased them down the alley outside Zianetti's. Senor Lopez. He was wearing a simple monk's habit. Benito pulled away in fear.
"Lie still!" snapped the man. There was such command in the voice that Benito did. Lopez's hands explored his scalp. Gently. "Well, your skull appears intact. Now lie still. You were noticed. The Schiopettieri are casting around for you. Your burned-face rescuer couldn't stick about." He pulled a blanket over Benito. Moments later the voice of the law could be heard.
" . . . a boy. Rumor has it he lives somewhere in this area of the city. Dark curly hair."
Then the voice of Lopez. "There are thousands of boys in Venice with dark curly hair. Doubtless I have this one hidden under a blanket in my cubicle." This was said in an absolutely level voice.
Respect in the voice. " . . . just wondered if you'd seen him, Father Lopez."
"I did. When I see him again, I will tell him you are looking for him," said Lopez.
Benito lay still, trapped between the terror of the Schiopettieri and horror about Mercutio's death.
A minute later, Lopez returned. "Schiopettieri are looking for you. Now. Explain to me what happened. Your burned-faced friend simply deposited you at my door and left."
Benito sat up, frightened. "I don't know what you're talking about. Mercutio, my friend . . ."
"With the Turkish waistcoat? The Schiopettieri say he is dead. Killed in the fracas." Lopez took a deep breath. "I am here to save a city, not to look after little sneak thieves. You are a piece in this puzzle, Benito Valdosta. You and your brother Marco and Katerina Montescue."
Benito started in fear. "How did you know—" He shrank back a little. It was always said that the Montagnards had killed their mother, had hunted Marco. Benito had always believed that himself. But what if . . . it had been the Metropolitans . . . even possibly this man, or agents of the Council of Ten. Those shadowy agents no one knew.
And Mercutio was dead. His mind just kept coming back to it. Dead . . . What was it that Valentina had said . . . He'll end up dead, and in two days Venice will have forgotten even his name.
Mercutio was dead. Dead. The whole of his face blown off. Dead.
Lopez shook him. Benito swung a fist at the Spaniard. "He's dead! Mercutio is dead!"
Lopez sighed. "Go on. Get out of here. You have that young fool's death on your mind. Perhaps we can talk when you are no longer a boy."
* * *
As he staggered out onto the street, Benito was vaguely aware that there was something very wrong about that scary priest. Ricardo Brunelli's guest, at one time, now living in the Ghetto. A Legate of the Grand Metropolitan . . . being attired as a monk and manning a confession booth in Dorsoduro . . . waiting for some great happening. But his mind was too full of the death of Mercutio.
He charged down the cobbles to Aldanto's, wiping hot, angry eyes with his fists. He only slowed when he got to their house, because he had to talk to the gate-guard, and he wouldn't be crying in front of anyone, not if he died for it. So he composed himself—holding his sorrow and his rage under tightest of masks; opened the door with his key—
Started to. The door opened at the first rattle of key in lock, and he found himself looking at Aldanto himself.
He just stared, frozen.
"You're late," Aldanto had said, grabbing his arm and hauling him inside. "You should have been back—"
"Let me go!" Benito snarled, voice crackling again, pulling his arm away so fast his shirt sleeve nearly tore.
Aldanto gave him a startled look, then a measured one. He let go of Benito's arm and turned back to the door, careful to throw all the locks—and only then turned back to Benito.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, neutrally.
He'd told himself, over and over, that he was not going to tell Aldanto what had happened.
But Caesare was a skillful interrogator; Benito couldn't resist the steady barrage of quiet questions, not when Aldanto was between him and the door. Syllable by tortured syllable, the handsome blond dragged the night's escapade out of him, as Benito stared at the floor, smoldering sullenly, determined not to break down a second time. He got to know every crack and cranny of the entryway floor before it was over.
Silence. Then, "I'm sorry," Aldanto said quietly. "I'm sorry about your friend."
Benito looked up. Aldanto's face was unreadable, but his eyes were murky with thought, memory, something. He looked past Benito for a moment.
"But you know very well," he said, noncommittally, "that was a damned fool stunt."
Benito snarled and made a dash for the stairs. Aldanto made no move to stop him. He tore up the stairs, stubbing his toes twice, getting up and resuming his run—got to Caesare's bedroom and through it, not caring if Maria was in the bed—to the roof-trap and out, slamming it behind him—
And out onto the roof, into the dark, the night, the sheltering night, where he huddled beside the chimney and cried and cried and cried. . . .
* * *
Dawn brought the return of sense, the return of thought.
Valentina was right, he thought bleakly. She told me and told me. Must have been a million times. She told me Mercutio was a fool. She told me he wouldn't see twenty. She was right. Him and his ideas—"gonna be rich and famous." So what's he come to? Blown away 'cause some ol' fool thinks he's Jewel. And ain't nobody going to remember him but me.
He crouched on his haunches, both arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth and shivering a little. Ain't nobody going to remember him but me. Could have been me. Could have been. Been coasting on my luck, just like Mercutio. Only one day the luck runs out . . .
He stared off across the roofs, to the s
teeples and turrets of the Accademia. Marco maybe got it right.
He sniffed, and rubbed his cold, tender nose on his sleeve. What have I done? What the hell good am I doing for him, or even for Caesare? The Dell'este has gone and made an heir to the house. And Marco . . . poor fish, doesn't even begin to know how to be sneaky. Just honest—and honest could wind up with him just as dead as Mama. There's gotta be somethin' I can do. There's got to be . . .
His thoughts went around and around like that for some time until he heard voices below, and saw Maria shutting the door beneath his perch, saw her hop into her gondola and row it away into a shiny patch of sun and past, into the shadows on the canal.
The Shadow of the Lion Page 71
