Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

This notion was confirmed when Capi Tiepolo put in his appearance. There was something very similar about the cast of the nose and the shape of the ears of both the good father and the boatman. Even in inbred Venice, features that similar usually spelled a blood-relationship.

It didn't take long to load the tiny casks onto the small barge; Marco didn't bother to get any closer than he was. He wasn't planning on trying to see if the articles were stamped or not. He was doing what only he could, with his perfect memory.

Even amid the bustle of the dock, he was keeping absolute track of exactly how many spice casks?and only the spice casks, nothing else?were going into the bottom of that barge.

Three days later, when the bundle of tax stamps came in, Marco had his answer. Three more casks had gone into the barge than there were stamps for.

That night he intended to give Caesare Aldanto his full report?but that afternoon he got an unexpected surprise.

A creamy white and carefully calligraphied note from the House of Dorma.

Marco finished his report to Aldanto, given while he was finishing his dinner in the kitchen, and Caesare was both impressed and surprised. The lad had handled himself like a professional?

Like an adult. He'd thought out what he needed to know, he'd planned how to get it without blowing his cover, and he'd executed that plan carefully, coolly, and patiently. Aldanto pondered the boy's information, and concluded that no matter how you looked at it, it was going to be worth a great deal to both sides of this messy and treacherous game he played. He nodded to himself, then looked up to see that the boy was still standing in the doorway, looking vaguely distressed.

Aldanto's approval did nothing to ease the boy's agitation; if anything, it seemed worse. "Marco, is there something wrong?"

"Caesare?" The boy looked absolutely desperate. "I?got this today?"

He handed a square of creamy vellum to Aldanto; feeling a terrible foreboding, Caesare opened it.

It proved to be nothing more than a simple invitation for Marco?and a friend, if he chose?to come to dinner at Dorma, to be introduced to the Family.

Aldanto heaved a sigh of relief. "One may guess," he said, handing the invitation back to Marco, "That Milord Petro Dorma has received your grandfather's letter." The boy's expression didn't change. "So what on earth is wrong?"

"It's?it's me, Caesare," the boy blurted unhappily. "I was a child the last time I was in a noble's household. I don't know… how to act, what to say, what to wear…"

He looked at Caesare with a pleading panic he hadn't shown even when he'd known his life hung in the balance. "Please, Caesare," he whispered, "I don't know how to do this!"

Caesare restrained his urge to laugh with a control he hadn't suspected he had. "You want me to help coach you, is that it?"

Marco nodded so hard Caesare thought his head was going to come off. He sighed.

"All right, young milord?let's see if we can create a gentleman out of you." He smiled dryly. "You may wish yourself back in the swamp before this is over!" Inwardly he smiled. This might be tedious, but it would be valuable.

"I don't believe we've met before, Father Lopez, although I've seen you several times at the Doge's soirees." Francesca glanced at Pierre and Diego, who were sitting in their own chairs in her salon not far from the Basque priest. "I'm acquainted with your two companions, somewhat, from the last such event." She pointed at Diego, and then Pierre. "He has an excellent wit, and the other laughs quite nicely. But I suspect you didn't come here to engage in humorous repartee. Nor, I'm quite sure, for the other reason gentlemen pay me a visit."

Lopez smiled. "Call me Eneko, if you would. The first thing I'd like to dispense with is formality."

"Good enough. Call me Francesca. The name 'de Chevreuse' is a false one, anyway?as I'm sure you are already aware."

Diego cocked his head. "Why are you sure of that? You've gone to considerable trouble to establish the name."

Francesca snorted. "Please! Father Lop?Eneko, rather, is a special envoy from the Grand Metropolitan in Rome. No one seems quite sure what he?and the two of you?are doing here in Venice, although I suspect Metropolitan Michael knows. You seem to spend most of your time in the Ghetto, which is largely terra incognita to the Venetian haut monde. Charitable work, it's said."

"That is, indeed, what we have been mostly doing," interjected Pierre.

" 'Mostly,' " mused Francesca, arching an eyebrow. "That leaves??" She answered her own question almost at once. "Investigation. That's what it leaves. Most people think you're trying to ferret out Strega witchcraft."

"And you don't?" asked Eneko.

"The idea's nonsense," replied Francesca. "First, why bother? The Strega have been in Venice for centuries, with no one any the worse for it. Second, you've been here for many months now. 'Ferreting out' Strega so-called witches in the Ghetto wouldn't take more than a few weeks, for any but the most incompetent of clerical magic-workers. Which you are?don't deny it?and I don't think the Grand Metropolitan chose to send fumblers."

Eneko nodded, accepting the compliment. "I thank you for that. Although I must admit I've wondered at our own 'competence.' The saints know we've had a difficult time ferreting out what we did come to find."

Francesca sighed. "Which, I suppose, was not my true identity."

Diego cleared his throat. "Ah… no. As it happens, Francesca?Marie-Fran?oise de Guemadeuc, to use the name you were born with?we uncovered that little secret within a few weeks of learning of your existence."

"My condolences," murmured Eneko. "I can't say I approved of your family, but I would not wish such cruelty and destruction on anyone."

Francesca stared at him. She was a little shaken. "You learned that quickly?"

Diego began to say something but Eneko waved him silent with a little motion of his hand. "It is time for a full introduction, I think. Francesca, let me explain who we really are." He nodded toward Pierre and Diego. "By 'we' I include more than just the three of us. There are some others sworn to our cause. Most of them?which is not many; a half-dozen?still in Toulouse or Orleans. Another, Francis, now resides in Mainz. All of us, at one time, were students at the University in Orleans. That is where we first met, and forged our brotherhood. Which explains, of course, our intimate knowledge of Aquitainian affairs."

Francesca's lips twisted into a wry little grimace. "I wouldn't have thought Orleans?anywhere in Aquitaine?would make a good breeding ground for the creation of brotherhoods and the forging of causes. Except those leading to personal advancement, which?" She gave all three of them a quick inspection. "?does not seem to be the case here."

Pierre chuckled harshly. Diego's chuckle was a softer and warmer thing. Eneko simply smiled, a bit grimly.

"To the contrary, Francesca, Aquitaine explains much. It was there that all of us finally realized?and accepted?the extent of the rot within the Church. By which I mean the Petrine branch."

For a moment, Francesca's jaws tightened. "Do tell," she murmured. "I believe it took the Metropolitan of Orleans five seconds to decide to excommunicate my father. As much time as it took to fill both his hands with gold coin."

Her ensuing chuckle was even harsher than Pierre's. "I must say it's refreshing to hear this from a Petrine cleric. At least, I assume you consider yourself such. Difficult to imagine the Grand Metropolitan of Rome sending a Pauline envoy to Venice."

"Petrine through-and-through," agreed Eneko. "In fact, we have a close relationship with the Hypatian Order."