They were just in time to see Benito catching the line Maria was throwing him. Light from Giaccomo’s porch lantern caught her eyes as she stared at them. There was something of a mixture of surprise and shock—yes, and a touch of fear—in the look she gave them.
“I think we need to get this fellow home,” Marco said loudly, praying Maria would keep her wits about her. She might not know him well, but she knew that Aldanto had trusted them to spy for him, and guard his back, more than once. He just prayed she’d trust him too, and follow his lead.
She did; playing along with him except for one startled glance. “Fool’s been celebratin’?” She snorted, legs braced against the roll of her boat, hands on hips, looking theatrically disgusted. She pushed her cap back on her hair with a flamboyant and exaggerated shove. “Ought to let him walk home, that I should. Ah, hell, hand him over.”
Aldanto was in no shape, now, to protest the hash they were making of his reputation. He was shaking like a reed in a winter storm. His skin was tight and hot to the touch, as Maria evidently learned when she reached up to help him down the ladder onto her halfdeck. “Look—you—” was all he managed before another coughing fit took him and Maria got him safely planted. She gave no real outward sign that she was alarmed, though—just a slight tightening of her lips and a frightened widening of her eyes.
“Think we’d better come along, Maria,” Marco continued, in what he hoped was a bantering tone of voice—for though they seemed to be alone, there was no telling who had eyes and ears in the shadows or above the canal. “Afraid milord is likely to be a handful. Won’t like being told what to do.” That last was for Aldanto’s benefit. While he talked, he stared hard into Maria’s eyes, hoping she’d read the message there.
Go along with this, he tried fiercely to project. I can help.
“You think so?” The tone was equally bantering, but the expression seemed to say that she understood that silent message. “Well, guess it can’t hurt—”
“Right enough, then. Benito, give Maria a hand with that line.” Marco climbed gingerly down into the boat where Aldanto sat huddled in misery, as Benito slid aboard, the bowline in his hand.
“What the hell—” Maria hissed, as soon as they were out of earshot of the bank.
“He’s got fever. Looking at him, I think it is just the marsh-fever, what they call ‘mal-aria,’ not the plague. You got something to keep him warm?”
Without the need to guard her expression, Marco could read her nearly as well as one of his books. First there was relief—Thank God, it could have been worse, he could have been hurt—and that was quickly followed by anger and resentment. He couldn’t guess at the reasons for those emotions, but that expression was chased almost immediately by stark, naked fear. Then she shuttered her face down again, and became as opaque as canal water. At her mute nod toward the bulkhead, Marco ducked under it, and out again, and wrapped the blanket he’d found around Aldanto’s shaking shoulders.
Aldanto looked up, eyes full of bleary resentment. “I—” cough “—can take care of—” cough “—myself, thanks.”
Marco ignored him. “First thing, we got to get him back home and in bed. But we gotta make out like’s he’s drunk, not sick.”
Maria nodded slowly; Marco was grateful for her quick grasp of the situation. “Because if the people figure he’s sick—they figure he’s an easy target. Damn!”
“Will you two leave me alone?” muttered the sick man.
This time Marco looked him right in the eyes.
“No,” he said simply.
Aldanto stared and stared, like one of the piers had up and answered him back; then groaned, sagged his head onto his knees, and buried his face in his hands.
“Right.” Marco turned back to Maria, swiveling to follow her movements as she rowed the gondola into the sparse traffic on the Grand Canal. She wasn’t sparing herself—Marco could tell that much from what he’d learned from poling his raft. Which meant she was trying to make time. Which meant she was worried, too.