Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

They stopped up against a chimney stack. While Marco caught his breath, Benito explained. "It's a great scam. A couple of Maria's cousins do the outer cladding at the Arsenal. They've been hollowing out a section from the actual keel timber of the galleys. Then it is fitted with a cunningly made cover, that you have to know exactly where to release. The Doge's customs and excise officers will never find it. You can only get to it from underwater."

"Oh." Well, that was relatively innocuous. Everyone tried to evade the Doge's customs to a greater or lesser extent.

Benito yawned. "Come on. Let's get back."

They both approached Caesare's apartment rather nervously. But all was quiet. And someone had swept up most of the broken crockery.

The next day Caesare and Maria were being very careful around each other. But at least the worst of their fight seemed to be over. One of Maria's cheeks was distinctly bruised, but otherwise there was no obvious damage except a shortage of breakfast crockery that no one mentioned.

"I've an errand for you, Marco," said Caesare, carefully slicing a piece of frittata and placing it inside a flap of bread. "This evening before moonrise. You'd better go with him, Benito. Along that 'upper highway' you boast about, because I want this scroll delivered without anyone knowing. But Marco will go inside alone."

It was a sign of increasing trust, Marco knew. Up to now he'd only taken messages to Captain Della Tomasso?Benito's fence and a coast trader who added confidential message carrying to his quiver of expensive services. This was a step up. But he would have preferred it if Benito weren't involved.

The rooftops were slippery, curled with mist. The only light was that reflected up from windows and the occasional torches in the street below. Marco wished like hell he was down there. Roof climbing was difficult enough when you could see, although it didn't seem to make much difference to Benito. But for all the inconvenience, Marco understood why they were going along the rooftops. He understood at once, the moment Caesare had told him exactly where he was going: The Casa Brunelli.

Ricardo Brunelli was Caesare's "protector" among Venice's upper crust. He was a power in those elite ranks. Brunelli saw himself as the Doge-in-waiting, and there was no doubt that the information Caesare had been able to furnish him about the Montagnards and their adherents in Venice had been valuable. From a comment that Maria had made, Marco was sure that Caesare performed other services for the head of Casa Brunelli. The whispered knowledge that Caesare lay under the mantle of Brunelli protection was a shield the former Montagnard agent needed. Brunelli was a power in the Metropolitan faction in Venice, even if he kept a public distance from it. And although the Metropolitans did not have quite as savage a reputation as the Montagnards, they had one savage enough?and theirs was the stronger of the two factions in neutral Venice. So long as Caesare enjoyed Brunelli's favor, the Montagnards would steer clear of him. Revenge was not worth the risk of Metropolitan retaliation. Brunelli shielded Caesare just as Caesare's own mantle protected Marco.

It was a precarious way to survive. No wonder that Caesare didn't want to go himself to Casa Brunelli with a scroll destined for someone other than Ricardo. To be kept secret from Ricardo, in fact.

For a guest at the Casa…

"Well, there it is." Benito pointed down at the glass windows of the Casa Brunelli. Across the canal, Marco could see the massive edifice which served the Holy Roman Empire as its embassy in Venice.

"You stay up here," said Marco sternly. "Don't try and peek. I'll be out presently."

Benito shrugged. "Huh. Can't see anything on the south side anyway. Unless I climb up the Imperial embassy, and I hear they've got some of the Knights of the Holy Trinity on watch on the roof."

"Just stay here," repeated Marco, as he dropped off the guttering to a narrow, rickety wooden outside loft-stair. It was only when he was close to the cobbled street that it occurred to him that Benito knew more than was comfortable about watching the Casa Brunelli.

With a boldness he didn't feel, he went up to the arched doorway and raised the heavy knocker. Before the hollow boom of it had even died away, the door opened. The liveried door warden looked disdainfully at Marco. "Yes?" he asked frostily.

"I have a message?" began Marco.

The door-warden snorted. "Messages for those in the Casa Brunelli are carried by the house messengers. Not by scruffy urchins." The door began to swing closed.

"For Senor Eneko Lopez?your master's Castilian guest," said Marco, hastily putting a foot in the way and hoping that the heavy iron-scrolled door would not simply crush it.

The heavy door stopped. "He's Basque, not Castilian!" For some reason, the point seemed important to the door warden. From his slight accent, Marco suspected he was originally from Spain. But Marco found Italian politics confusing enough, without wanting to know the quirks of the Iberian variety.

"I will have it taken to him," the door warden added, grudgingly.

Marco shook his head. "No. My master said I must give it into his very hands, and carry his reply."

The doorman snorted again. But he plainly did not want to anger his master's guest. Reluctantly, he opened the door and allowed Marco to enter. Watching Marco as if he expected this cockroach-in-human-form to instantly begin laying eggs or stealing the silver, he tinkled a small bell. A footman appeared hastily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The door warden sniffed. "Louis. Take this… messenger up to Senor Lopez. He says he is to wait for a reply."

The tone said: and watch him like a hawk.

The footman led Marco to the back stairs. Not for the likes of him the front steps. They walked up four flights of ill-lit stairs… And then were nearly knocked down them again by an extremely angry woman, who was so busy looking back up that she failed to see them. Even in poor light she was a truly beautiful lady, clad in a low-cut azure Damask-silk gown, trimmed with a jabot of finest Venetian lace. Her hair was on the red side of auburn; her skin, except for flaming patches on her cheeks, a perfect unblemished cream.

The footman nearly flung himself up the wall to get out of her way, with a hasty terrified "scusi."

Marco pressed himself against the wall too. She didn't say anything to either of them, but her angry look promised retribution later. Marco was glad he wasn't the footman, and that he'd never have to encounter her again. He had a feeling that despite her legendary beauty, Lucrezia Brunelli (and this could only be her) would enjoy making someone else's life a misery. And she looked mad enough about something to be looking for a victim, shortly. But even angry, she was beautiful.

Marco shook himself guiltily. How could he think this of anyone but Angelina?

They walked on to the upper floor. The footman knocked.

"I am at my devotions, Lucrezia," said the voice from within. The accent was distinctly foreign. But the tone had a suggestion of tried patience.

The footman cleared his throat. He gave Marco a quelling look. "Senor Lopez. It is I, Louis. I have brought a messenger to see you."

"My apologies. Bring him in, Louis."

Marco found himself bowed into the presence of a short, slightly built man, who was carefully placing a marker in a book. He too had reddish hair. For a moment Marco found himself wondering why the woman who was considered to be the reigning beauty of Venice should interest herself in this man. Then Eneko Lopez turned and limped toward him and Marco realized what attracted Lucrezia Brunelli to this foreigner.