Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

Then somebody asked if the Casa Badoero was still courting the Milanese. The scar-seamed merchant considered the question thoughtfully before replying with the carefully worded bit of information that no, it was too late for courting.

And just as Marco was hauling a load of dishes to the back, he got the final key piece from Mario Pellagio. Marco overheard mention that the Signori Di Notte were looking for some ideas on who had killed Veronica Mantelli. And Delmi's unknown companion had said they need look no further than whoever was bringing the new supply of black lotos into the city. It was just an unrelated comment… except the rich and beautiful Signorina Mantelli had been prominent among Lucrezia Brunelli's set.

If there was one thing that could get you into real trouble with the Doge and the Signori di Notte and their Schiopettieri it was black lotos from Turkey. When they'd collected the tiny blue lotos in the marshes for Sophia's concoctions, Chiano had explained. From the magical lotos that had stolen the wits of Ulysses' men in Libya had come the two strains. The blue lotos was a rare, wild plant in the marshes of the Mediterranean coast?doubtless spread by sailors over the years. The blue was a mild hallucinogenic and soporific, and difficult to harvest in quantity. But somewhere within the Pontus mountains the plant had been bred, and magically altered. Black lotos. Twenty times as powerful… before refining. The magically refined drug had become a plague not twenty years back. Then it had been freely for sale. Doge Marco Gradenigo had utterly banned its import and sale, and agents of the Council of Ten had quietly killed importers. So. It was back. And back in the wealthiest circles. People who went a-spice-buying on Murano. People who had ample Venice ducats.

Ducats to buy support… inside the Accademia where the sons of Venice's nobles were an available target.

Marco's head buzzed, and his gut went tight with excitement. So?Accademia might be involved in this new Milanese policy!

Or part of the Accademia was. Marco was no longer so na?ve as to figure that what one priest wanted, the rest did too. Assuming, of course?which those at Elmo's did?that the bishop's superiors were aware of his loyalties. Which might, or might not, have been the truth. In either case, it was something Caesare Aldanto would find fascinating indeed.

Marco hustled the last of the dishes into the kitchen, took off his apron, and hung it up for the last time. He had what he needed; time to give Michelo his job back. Now only one thing remained; for Marco to verify with his own eyes exactly what was going on down at the Ventuccio warehouse and how it was being conducted.

Aldanto was beginning to have a feeling of d?j? vu every time he looked up from dinner to see Marco hovering like a shadow around the kitchen door.

"Something wrong, Marco?" he asked, beginning to have that too-familiar sinking feeling. The last time the boy had had that look on his face, that?watcher?had moved in across the canal. And the time before?

The time before was what had gotten them all into this mess.

"Caesare?" the boy hesitated, then brought his hands out from behind his back. "This is for you."

Aldanto took the slim package from the boy; a long and narrow, heavy thing, wrapped in oiled silk. He unwrapped it, and nearly dropped it in surprise.

It was a fine?a very fine?main gauche, the like of which Caesare hadn't seen, much less owned, since his Milan days. Light-rippling oystershell folded Damascus steel; perfection from tip to sharkskin handle?balanced so well in his hand that it already felt part of him. Unmistakably Ferrarese workmanship. For nearly a century now, since Duke Andrea Dell'este had had the foresight and cunning to recruit steelworkers from the East and swordsmiths from Spain, and brought them together, Ferrara blades had become the standards whereby all other swords were judged.

He was so surprised that his first thought was that the boy must have stolen it. The Lord knew it wasn't the kind of thing the boy could afford! But Marco spoke before he could voice that unworthy thought.

"It?it's from my grandfather, milord," he said, his face and voice sounding strained. "He says it's by way of thanking you. He sent me one for Milord Dorma too?seems he wrote and told him who my mother was!"

"He what?" Aldanto tightened his hand involuntarily on the knife hilt.

"He says," Marco continued, "that he thinks Casa Dorma ought to know, and that I'm safer with them knowing, because they'll put me where hurting me would cause a vendetta no one wants. 'Hide in plain sight,' is what he says."

"The man has a point," Aldanto conceded, thinking better of the notion. Relaxing again, he checked the weapon for maker's marks, and sure enough, on the blade near the quillions found the tiny Dell'este symbol. The old man was a shrewd one, all right?he hadn't kept his smallish city intact and largely independent while sitting between three powerful forces by being stupid. He had a real instinct for which way to jump. Besides, if Dorma now knew what station the boy really was, the obligations would be turned around. Dorma would now be in the position to negotiate favorably with the guardians of the Po River and the roads to Bologna and Rome.

Marco was the son of an undutiful younger daughter of the House of Dell'este. But the Dell'este honor was legendary. It ran as deep as the heavens were wide. No trading family would want such an enemy. Marco would no longer be the object of charity, and the Dorma would actually wind up owing Aldanto for bringing the boy to their attention. Altogether a nice little turn of events?especially considering that he was being paid by Dell'este to watch over the boys.

"He says," Marco continued, looking a little relieved but still plainly under strain, "it's by way of a bribe, milord, for you to keep Benito. He says he doesn't think we better let Dorma know about Benito at all, not that he's my brother."

Aldanto thought about young Milord Lightfingers loose in Dorma and shuddered. "I think he's right." Besides, the boy might just be a main chance.

Marco carefully calculated his day off to coincide with the day that the Badoero hirelings picked up their consignment from the Ventuccio warehouse. By dawn he was down at the warehouse dock, ready and willing to run just about any errand for anybody. This wasn't the first time he'd been here?he'd played runner before, when he wasn't playing waiter's helper at Elmo's. He wanted his face to be a familiar one on the dock, so that he wouldn't stand out if Capi Tiepolo became suspicious. He even had Ventuccio permission to be out here; they thought he was strapped for cash, and he was supposedly earning the extra odd penny by running on his day off.

He'd run enough of those errands by noon that no one thought or looked at him twice when he settled into a bit of shade and looked to be taking a rest break. The sun was hot down here on the dock; there wasn't a bit of breeze to be had, and Marco was sweating freely. One friendly fellow offered Marco the last of his wine as he went back on shift, and Marco accepted gratefully. He wasn't having to feign near-exhaustion; he was exhausted. He was mortally glad that the remainder of his self-imposed assignment was going to allow him to sit out here, in the shade of a barrel, and pretend to get splinters out of his hands while he watched the Badoero barge being loaded twenty feet away.

The barge was a neat little thing; newly painted and prosperous looking. The boatman who manned her did not, however, look like the run-of-the-mill canaler.

In point of fact, that carefully dirtied cotte looked far too new; the man's complexion was something less than weathered?and those hands pushed pencils far more often than the pole of a skip. Marco would be willing to bet money on it. This was no canaler, hired or permanent retainer. This was likely one of the younger members of the Family.