“Who’s Hider?” Frank asked, feeling a sudden twinge of anxiety. Well. Jealousy, to be precise. Did some lousy Brit already have the inside track with the girl?
“Steady on there, podnuh,” Gerry said. “Ma’am,” he said, sweeping off the silly cavalier hat he’d taken to wearing, “might we have the privilege of your name?”
Frank nodded. The courtly manners thing might be a good idea after all. It had seemed excruciating stuff when a small assortment of Nasis and other gentry had been giving them crash-courses in current manners—Dad’s attempts had been hilarious at first until he seemed to just accelerate ahead of everyone—but the effects could be impressive. Frank swept his baseball cap off with the hand that the maid wasn’t holding—score one, he realized, she hadn’t let go yet. “Lady,” he said, in his best shot at the Italian language, “permit me the honor of naming my brothers Gerry and Ron Stone, and I am Frank, very much at your service. And you are?”
The giggles suggested he’d got it wrong, but at least in an amusing way.
“Giovanna Marcoli. My father Antonio is the—what is the word for capo?—of the Committee of Correspondence in Venice.” The girl straightened proudly. “All of north Italy—even Milan! Even though he is only a metalworker.”
She giggled again, and Frank realized her amusement had been at the notion of herself as a Lady. Craftsmen were respected enough, in Venice, but very far removed in social terms from the Venetian noble merchant families. The Case Vecchie, Frank thought they called themselves—the “Old Houses.”
Giggling or not, Giovanna still hadn’t relinquished his hand. Frank was in no hurry for her to do so. The hand was of a piece with the girl herself—small, warm, and very well shaped. “Sir Henry is a merchant and a man of some note in Venice,” she continued, “if you like I will tell you more of him later?”
“Sure,” said Ron. The middle of the three Stone brothers had just turned eighteen, and had a slightly-too-eager tone in his voice. No, make that much-too-eager. He took off his hat, an English foghat he’d gotten somewhere, just to make sure Frank was outdone in the dumbass headgear stakes. “Thanks.”
Great, thought Frank, he’s going to hump her leg any minute. Actually, he could feel that urge himself. Please, please, please, he thought, let Giovanna not turn out to be attached or something. Short, brunette, dark-eyed, and—and—
Perfect.
Damn. Frank was sure he’d blow it.
As if foretelling his doom, Giovanna finally let go of his hand and frowned. Suddenly, she seemed all business.
“Messer . . . Gerry, it is?” Giovanna asked. “Why must I not touch that bag?”
“This bag?” Gerry said, hoisting it up with a grunt of effort.
“Yes. Is it secret to you or to the Committee?”
“Both, in a manner of speaking.” Gerry crossed the room to a table to unpack it.
Frank went over to watch. He’d been kind of curious himself.
“Now,” said Gerry, “I expect y’all got a thing or two on sale hereabouts in Venice for the man of action, but I figured on being prepared, one way or another.” He looked around to his audience, which was now everyone in the room.
“Y’see,” he went on, “I figure never to need any of this stuff. On the other hand, I figure Darryl figured on that, too, and look where he ended up.” He paused. “I sure wish I knew what that guy is doing, still locked up in the Tower. I figured he’d have taken it on the lam by now, but maybe he’s waiting for—”
“Gerry!” Frank said, pointing. “The bag?”
Gerry visibly wrenched his train of thought back off the track of the mayhem he was missing elsewhere. “What? Oh, sure. The bag. Well, lessee now. We got pistols, six of, modern, for the three of us. Well, not ‘modern’ modern; I mean state-of-the-art seventeenth-century-style flintlocks. Made by the fellers good old Mister Santee is trainin’ up. They’re small and look down-time, only they got rifling and they take minie balls. To look at, nothing much, but way better than anything here and they don’t say up-time to anyone who sees ’em.”