Eric Flint - The Shadow of the Lion

Antimo nodded.

The duke put a hand to his chin and looked speculative. "Given the current positions of the major factions in Venice?how do you assess Petro Dorma's strength?" He waited patiently for the reply he knew Antimo would eventually formulate. Privately he regarded Antimo Bartelozzi as his personal version of the mills of God. The agent ground slowly?but he ground very, very fine.

"Well?superficially his faction is the smallest, the weakest, and the most diverse and divided. Petro is very able, but he is not charismatic. He lacks the flamboyance and panache of Ricardo Brunelli, for instance."

The Old Fox looked at him through half-lidded eyes. The languor might have fooled a lesser man. "Ah. But you think there are other factors to be considered?"

"Yes." The agent smiled wryly. "Should circumstances prompt either the Metropolitan or Montagnard factions to lose support in Venice… that support may easily go to Dorma. He has long been seen as the firmest advocate of a centrist, neutral stance. His party's weakness is its diversity. But, as a broad church, it offers space to former adherents of both the other parties?the softer ones, if not the fanatics. And Venice's people?though they might lean Montagnard or Metropolitan with the blowing of the factional winds?have a strong tradition of independence. Like a heavy keel to a ship. That is Dorma's central creed. If either Rome or the Empire truly threaten Venice, I think its populace?and most of its senators?will remember that heritage. While Dorma has the smallest support base, and is not flamboyant like Brunelli, he is respected. You can find very few people who dislike him. And he has a reputation for hard, meticulous, scrupulously fair work?as you know."

The Old Fox gave a smile that, had he really been his four-footed namesake, would have sent every peasant farmer who saw it off to sleep?uneasily, with their boarspear and their dog?inside their henhouse.

"That's all shaping up nicely, then. And now that Baron Trolliger has arrived…"

Antimo's smile almost matched that of his master. "It's such a pleasure to have a capable Emperor sitting on the throne in Mainz."

"Is it not?" agreed the duke cheerfully. "Hohenstauffens of the past, more often than not, would have already been planting their great clumsy boots on the Brenner Pass. But Charles Fredrik is almost an Italian, the way he thinks. I assume he's offering us money, not soldiers?"

"Baron Trolliger hasn't been specific yet. He only arrived yesterday, after all. I doubt he will be, milord, until you meet with him personally. But those are the signs, yes. The Emperor, clearly enough, wants a proxy army here in northern Italy?just in case the situation in Venice proves to be as dangerous as he and we both think it is. And he's more than smart enough to see that Ferrara?little, innocuous Ferrara?is the logical choice."

Antimo's smile grew very wry. "Baron Trolliger's praise for the honor of Dell'este?as well as the cunning of the 'Old Fox'?has been most, ah, fulsome."

"As it should be!" chuckled the duke. "I've spent a lifetime developing that reputation, after all. Send the man in for a private audience, then, as soon as he's ready. Is he still cleaning his boots?"

"Probably," replied Antimo. "There's a man who genuinely hates to travel. His curses on that subject were almost as fulsome as his praise for Dell'este. And, I'm sure, quite a bit more heartfelt."

"There's no rush. Negotiations will be lengthy, in any event. I intend to squeeze as much money as I possibly can from the Empire. Charles Fredrik can certainly afford it."

Antimo nodded. "And what about Marco? Do you wish me to take any steps?"

The Old Fox raised an eyebrow. "No. Let him alone. Perhaps practice will improve his poetry."

Lies.

That was what his whole life had become, over the last few weeks. Lies and evasions and dirty little twistings of what scraps of truth he had told?

Marco's gut ached like someone had punched it, hard. It had ached like that for days. His throat was so choked most of the time he could hardly swallow. And his heart?if it wasn't broken, it was doing a damn good imitation of being broken.

Marco Valdosta, he who called himself Marco "Felluci" these days, had good reason not to own to the Case Vecchie family he'd been born into. His Ferrarese mother had made sure of that with her fanatical Montagnard beliefs, and the long-buried secrets that went with what she had done to further the cause.

Still… this wasn't why he felt as if he must be one of the most pitiable sixteen-year-olds in all of Venice. He was looking miserable enough for Benito's friend Claudia to comment on it. Claudia had told him to his face that he was drooping like a four-day-old leftover bunch of finocchio leaves, and had wanted to know the reason. He hadn't dared tell her. He hadn't dared tell anyone.

Although he really didn't intend to be that way, his disposition wavered between sullen and terrified. He spent most of his time moping around like a moon-sick idiot. His brother had given up on him in disgust; Maria Garavelli and Caesare Aldanto only knew he was pining over a girl and being unusually peculiar about it.

Caesare was being more than patient, he was being condescending?which Marco was overly sensitive to just now. Maria, having failed to jolly him out of it, had taken to snapping at him frequently. They repeated the same scene at least twice a day. It usually started with him glooming about in her path, and Maria stumbling around him, until she finally lost her temper?

Then she'd explode, canaler's cap shoved back on her dark hair, strong hands on hips, dark eyes narrowed with annoyed frustration?

"Dammit Marco, can't you get the hell out of my way?"

Even the memory made him wince.

She snapped, he sulked, they both got resentful, and Caesare sighed.

The problem was they didn't know the half of what he'd gotten into.

Marco, who was just home from work at Ventuccio's booth on the Piazza San Marco, huddled in a soft plush-covered chair in Aldanto's living room. He had lit one lamp, on the right side of the window tonight?that was to tell Maria that all was well?but had left the rest of the room in gray gloom. He was curled around the knot of anguish that seemed to have settled into his gut for good. Every time he looked up, the very room seemed to breathe reproach at him.

There was frost on the window?bitter cold it was out there. Here he was, warm and dry and eating good?he could have been out in the Jesolo marshes, freezing his butt off, but he wasn't, thanks to Caesare Aldanto. He could have been shivering in Benito's attic, or in their little barren apartment in Cannaregio?hell he could have been dead, but he wasn't, again thanks to Aldanto.

Caesare had taken him and Benito under his protection. He had protected them and then taken them into his own home. He'd been feeding them and housing them and keeping them safe because the town was in a turmoil and that was the only way he could be certain they were safe. And now Marco had gone and compromised the whole damned setup and compromised Caesare himself.

Maria was right. He was an ingrate.

He was more miserable than he'd ever been in his life; more miserable than the time he'd hidden out in the marshes, because that had only been physical misery?more miserable than when his mother had been killed, because that was a clean-cut loss. This?this tangle of lies and half-truths he'd woven into a trap binding him and Aldanto?this mess had him so turned inside-out?that it was a wonder he even remembered what day it was.

Oh, Angelina, he thought mournfully, if only I'd never seen you.

It had seemed so innocent, sending that love poem to Angelina Dorma. She wouldn't know who had sent it, so what harm could possibly come of it? But Angelina had assumed it had come from Aldanto, because she was in love with Caesare. Not surprising, that. Caesare Aldanto was a man, not a lovesick boy. Caesare Aldanto was urbane and sophisticated and, to top it off, tall, golden-haired?in a city full of short, dark folk?and as handsome as a sculpture of Apollo. No girl would think twice about Marco with Caesare Aldanto in the same city. Marco didn't blame Angela?and truth to tell, he hadn't really expected her to respond to the poems so strongly.