Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

Benito shook his head. "No go. He needs more; needs protection, needs somebody with weight backing 'im. So I'm askin'?you seen that pretty blond?the one that ain't from these parts?in here lately?"

Claudia shook her head, letting go of Marco's chin. "Not me. Valentina-love?"

She too shook her head. "No. Know who would, though?that canal-rat that used't work for Antonio. Maria Garavelli. She's living with him, people say."

"Oh, no?" It was Benito's turn to shake his head. "Ain't messin' with that one. That Maria keeps an eye on 'im; push him, she'll know?I damn sure don't want her knowin' I'm trying to touch her man. She's got a nasty way with folks as bothers 'im."

"Point," Valentina agreed. "All right. Best I can say is try that runner-girl of yours, Lola. She's been doin' runs down along where he mostly seems t' hang out?'specially lately."

A fistfight broke out across the room, interrupting them. For a few seconds it remained confined to the original two combatants?but a foot in the wrong place tripped one up and sent him into a table and its occupants?and things began to spread from there.

Valentina and Claudia exchanged glances filled with unholy glee.

"Shall we?"

"Let's?"

With reverent care, they handed their instruments to the bartender, who placed them safely behind the wooden bulwark. They divested themselves of knives?this was a fistfight, after all?then charged into the fray with joyful and total abandon.

"Women," Benito said, shaking his head ruefully. "Well, at least they'll come out of that with full pockets. Back way, brother." Marco followed him outside with no regret.

Benito led the way again, back over the rooftops, climbing towers and balconies, inching over drainpipes and across the support beams of bridges until Marco was well and truly lost yet again. Fatigue was beginning to haze everything, and he hadn't the least notion where in Venice he could be?except that by the general run of the buildings, they were still in the lower-class section of town. When Benito finally stopped and peered over a roof edge, Marco just sat, closing his eyes and breathing slowly, trying to get his wind back, with a gutter biting into his bony haunches.

"Hi!" he heard Benito call softly, "Lola!"

There was the sound of feet padding over to stand beneath where Benito leaned over the edge. "Benito?" answered a young female voice. "You in trouble?"

"No. Just need to find someone."

By now Marco had recovered enough to join Benito in peering over the roof edge. On the walkway just below him was a child?certainly younger than Benito, pretty in the way that an alley-kitten is pretty.

"I'm waiting," she said, and "Oh!" when she saw Marco.

Benito shook his head at the question in her glance. "Not now. Later, promise. Gotta find that blond you're droolin' after."

She looked incensed. "I ain't drooling after him! I just think he's?nice."

"Yeah, and Valentina just sings cute little ballads. You know where he is?"

She sniffed. "I shouldn't tell you…"

"Oh c'mon! Look?I promise I'll give you that blue scarf of mine?just tell."

"Well, all right. He's in Antonio's over on the Rio della Frescada. I just run a message over there and I saw him. I think he's going to be there awhile."

"Hot damn!" Benito jumped to his feet, and skipped a little along the edge of the coppo tiles while Marco held his breath, expecting him to fall. "Bright-eyes, you just made my day!"

Benito had traded on the fact that he was a known runner in order to get into Antonio's. It wasn't a place Marco would have walked into by choice. The few faces he could see looked full of secrets, and unfriendly. They approached the table that Aldanto had taken, off in the darkest corner of the room, Benito with all the aplomb of someone who had every right to be there, even if he was only fourteen years old. Marco just trailed along behind, invisible for all the attention anyone paid him. The place was as dark as Barducci's had been well lit; talk was murmurous, and there was no one entertaining. Marco was not at all sure he wanted to be here.

"Milord?" Benito had reached Aldanto's table, and the man looked up when he spoke. Marco had no difficulty in recognizing the Caesare Aldanto from Ferrara. Older, harder?but the same man. "Milord, I got a message for you?but?it ain't public."

Aldanto looked at him. Startled at first, then appraisingly. He signaled a waiter, and spoke softly into the man's ear; the man murmured something in reply, picked up the dishes that had been on Aldanto's table, and motioned them to follow.

The waiter led them all to a tiny room, with barely room for more than a table and a few chairs in it?but it had a door and the door shut softly behind them. Aldanto seated himself at the table and put down his wine glass. The way he positioned himself, the boys had to stand with him seated between them and the door. The lantern that lit the room was on the wall behind Aldanto's head and made a sunblaze out of his hair.

"I'm waiting," was all he said.

"Milord, my brother's got information that you might be able to use?it might be you and him know the same people. We want to sell it."

He poked Marco with his elbow. Marco shook himself into awareness.

"Information?" Aldanto did not look amused. "What on earth could you two have that would be of any use to me?"

"Milord, somebody thinks it's important. My brother has been having to hide out in the marshes because somebody thought it was important enough to kill my mother, but she passed it on to Marco here. See, we know who you are. We know where you're from. We reckoned you would be the right man to know what he's got. And we figured you'd be the best man to pay our price?and that's to keep him safe after he's told you."

The blond man began to look angry. "If this is some kind of a scam?"

"Brother," Marco said clearly and distinctly, "the viper strikes." It was the password of those in the service of the Milanese Duke Visconti.

Aldanto, who had just taken a mouthful of wine, coughed and practically choked.

Marco took the most recent of his precious copies of The Message from his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

Hazed with fatigue, Marco was blind to Aldanto's reactions?but Benito wasn't.

Within a few moments, Benito had figured Aldanto was not pleased with their recognition of him as a Milanese agent. Moments after that he knew by the worried look that Aldanto wasn't working for Duke Visconti anymore.

This required recalculation.

Then Aldanto's mouth began to twitch as he read the paper Marco had given him.

"Where did you come by this?"

"I told you," Benito said, stalling for time. "Our mama was something with the Milanese?passed their messages and whatall. Except somebody figured that out an' came for her, and Marco ran for the marshes to hide out with the last thing she got. Figured things were fine until he got jumped out there a day or so ago, and it weren't just any nightbird, it was an assassin. We are Valdosta; you might know the name?you might know people Mama knew?Ventuccio. You going help us out?"

"Valdosta. Well… well…" Aldanto pointed at the paper. "Nothing here for me," he said. His mouth was amused but his eyes were hard. "What you've got is an out-of-date infiltration schedule. Useless. And worthless."

Marco's mind went blank. All the hope?the plans?all in ruins; and the man Aldanto didn't seem the least bit interested in helping, much less being the shining rescuer Marco had prayed for.

"But?somebody must think I know something," he said desperately, "or why try to kill me? And why send an assassin? They could have hired one of the marsh-gangs, easy." Now all he wanted was to be able to think of something useful to Aldanto; something worth the cost of protecting both himself and Benito. It was far too late now to go back to the Jesolo marsh. "Maybe?maybe I know something someone doesn't want out?like a name, or a face?can't you use that?"