Lackey, Mercedes & Flint, Eric & Freer, Dave - [Heirs of Alexandria 01] (45 page)

"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."

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.