Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

He blew on the fire. It caught, sending small tongues of smoky flame to nibble at the bigger twigs. He turned around to see her still standing there, dripping. Those were tears adding to the wetness. He went across to hug her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Well, everything. I was going to say 'you're a good kid, Benito Valdosta.' " She sighed. "Only you're not a kid any more and I'm not as strong as I thought I was. Can… can you stay a while?"

"Sure," said Benito, letting go of her and going to the cupboard. He unstoppered the bottle of grappa with his teeth; then poured a generous dollop into a cracked mug and took it to her. "Here. Get yourself outside this. Let me get you out of those wet clothes."

Her teeth chattered against the edge of the mug. She drank. "I can deal with it myself."

Benito went on loosening the laces. "I saw it all earlier, Maria. Do it yourself if you like. But I want you out of that wet stuff, wrapped in a blanket, eating biscotti in front of the fire in two minutes or I'll do it for you."

This drew a smile. "Help me, then. You can be really bossy, Benito Valdosta."

"Uh-huh. And who do you think I learned it from?"

She laughed. "Well. You'd also better get out of that wet stuff before I help you."

Benito took a deep breath. He wasn't na?ve enough not to see certain inevitable consequences coming. And… he was quite shocked when he understood how much he wanted them to.

This can't be happening! cried out some little corner of himself. You idiot! You'll turn into a fool like your brother!

The rest of him, however, as his hands drifted across Maria's shoulders and back?so feminine, for all the muscle?had a different opinion.

Shut up… boy.

The next hours seemed almost like a dream to Benito. In a bed, well lit by candlelight, Maria was not the fierce and dimly seen rutter she had been in the bottom of a gondola, lit by nothing more than a crescent moon. There was nothing of the hard canaler left in her now. She was soft, rounded, smooth?more velvety and gorgeous than anything Benito had ever imagined.

The muscle was still there. The strong arms and legs coiled around him in passion gave proof of that often enough. But Benito barely noticed. His entire existence seemed nothing but a world of warmth, wetness, softness, all aglow with candlelight and his own dreams, finally boiling to the surface.

The first time he told her he loved her, Maria didn't even scowl at him. Indeed, she smiled.

"You don't have to say that, Benito," she murmured softly.

"I wanted to," he insisted. Feeling a bit of the old street savvy wailing somewhere in his heart?you idiot!?but not much. Hardly any, in truth.

Maria shook her head. "Please?don't. The word is cheap. Caesare showered me with it like false coins. I don't want to hear it any more."

So he subsided, for a time, distracted easily enough by Maria's next wave of passion. She might not want to hear the word with her ears, but every other part of her body seemed eager to listen. Besides, it was hard to stay poetic with Maria. She made him laugh too much.

When she wasn't criticizing him, that is. Usually both at the same time.

"What did that silly Sarispelli teach you, anyway?" she grumbled at one point. "I'm not a wooden plank being nailed on a ship, you know? And that thing of yours is way too big for a nail in the first place."

By now, Benito was relaxed enough to give an honest answer. "Hey, she's nice. I don't think she really knew any more than I did."

"Guess not," agreed Maria.

Benito was even relaxed enough to be smart instead of street-savvy stupid. "Show me, then. Please."

"Good boy," gurgled Maria happily, and proceeded to do so. Some time later, as she cried out with pleasure?much louder than she had before?Benito whispered the words again. Moaned them, rather, since he was awash in his own ecstasy.

Maria slapped the back of his head, sure enough. But, that done, the same hand which slapped began to caress and clutch. And stroked him, softly and steadily, as they lay in each others' arms afterward, pooled in their own moisture.

"That stinking bastard Aldanto was good for something," Maria whispered. "I give it to you as a gift."

"I love you," he whispered back.

She didn't slap him, this time. But her hand came up and closed his mouth. "Don't, Benito. Please. Tonight is too special, for both of us. Just let it be what it is, that's all."

He never spoke the words again that night, even though it lasted almost until dawn. Before he finally fell asleep, not long after Maria, he raised himself on one elbow and gazed down upon her nude body lying next to him. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and knew that he never would. Fifteen years old be damned. Some things are certain.

Still, he didn't say the words, even though she was no longer awake to rebuke him. In some obscure way, he couldn't.

He puzzled at the problem, for a bit. Just as he drifted into slumber, it came to him. He could never steal anything from Maria, he realized. Not even words of love.

"We have the dagger. It's a Ferrara-steel blade with scarlet and blue tassels," said Retired Admiral Dourso, one of Petro's fellow Signori di Notte. "We have the witnesses?one who saw him lurking in the alley, and two who heard him utter angry threats at the bishop. You were there. It was the night he was arrested in that affray with the Knights and Servants of the Trinity."

Petro Dorma took a deep breath. "Bishop Capuletti was killed at about midnight?"

The admiral nodded. "The body was still warm when it was found, just before midnight. The clothes were barely wet. I'm sorry, Petro. I must take Marco Valdosta into custody."

Petro shook his head at his older colleague. "Admiral, I haven't had much sleep. I must tell you that some hours after midnight, I became an uncle."

It took the salt-and-pepper-haired admiral a few moments to work this out. "Valdosta's child?"

Petro thought the little girl looked very like its father. But that was another matter for later. "My sister, Angelina, has had a daughter, yes. The child is rather premature."

"Congratulations, Petro, but…"

"The birth was attended by the Doctor Rigannio, a midwife, my mother, Countess Marangoni?and Marco Valdosta. He assisted as he is learning to be a doctor. Angelina went into labor just before midnight, at the soiree at the Casa Antorini. Which, as you know, is near the Oratio del Cruciferi."

Petro walked over to the sideboard and poured each of them a glass of Vin Santo. He handed the admiral one of the Venetian-ware glasses. "So. Unless you wish to accuse my ward of witchcraft and having a doppelganger, I suggest you look elsewhere for a murderer. The time and distances traveled make it unlikely. The witnesses who actually saw him help with Angelina make it impossible."

When the admiral had left, Petro sat with his head in his hands. Someone had set out to deliberately incriminate Marco. It was pure luck that he had a cast-iron alibi. This was plainly an attack on Dorma. Somehow the deliberations of Council of Ten must have leaked. This lot was bad enough… without that Angelina had spent half her labor demanding that Caesare Aldanto be brought to her, and already this morning had summoned him to her bedside to demand the same.

An hour later the admiral was back. "Not Marco Valdosta. His brother."

Benito was struggling to wake up. Having his room at Dorma?which he'd been back in for less than two hours?invaded by Petro, another Signor di Notte, and two Schiopettieri was something of a shock.

It was even more of a shock when they wanted to know where the hell he'd been last night.