Marco had just enough time for his nose to warn him, and then the rain came.
The first fat drops plopped on the back of his neck and trickled icily down his back, adding to his misery. This morning he’d been sure that there was no way he could begin to even up the debt between himself and Aldanto. At this point he was beginning to think that the scale might just be tipping the other way.
* * *
“Hee hee he-he-he! Well, lookee what th’ storm washet ep—”
The voice that brayed out of the dark and the rain was one Marco had hoped never to hear again.
“I heerd ye gone townie on us, Marco—boy.” The speaker was little more than a black blot against the phosphorescent water—a large blot. “I heerd ye niver come back t’ see yer old friends. I heerd ye figger yer better’n us now.”
It was Big Gianni, and he had the next segment of the trail completely blocked. To either side was deep water and dangerous mud—some of it bottomless, sucking mire-pits.
“C’mon, Marco—boy—ain’t ye gonna run from Big Gianni? Ain’t ye gonna give ‘im a race?” Lightening flickered once, twice. The blot shifted restlessly.
Marco fought panic. “Get out of my way, Big Gianni,” he shouted over the thunder. “Leave me alone. I never hurt you.”
“Ye hurt Big Gianni’s feelin’s, Marco—boy,” the hoarse voice came back. “Ye wouldn’t play with Big Gianni. Ye sent that Chiano t’ warn Gianni off, ye did. But Chiano, he ain’t here now. Now it’s jest me an’ you.”
Marco could run. He could shed that heavy pack and run back along the safe path until he came to one of the branches. Then he could get into an area he knew better than Gianni did, where he could outdistance him and get safely back to town.
But—without what he’d come for. And it was just possible that without Sophia’s spell-woven medicine, Caesare Aldanto would die, fighting for breath, choking—literally drowning as his lungs filled. The way that Marco had almost died.
His knife was in his hand without his really thinking about it, and he slipped the straps of the pack off his shoulders, dropping it to the reed hummock he was standing on. With the feel of the hilt in his hand, his breathing steadied. He wasn’t fifteen any more—nor was he armed with nothing but a scrap of glass. He had most of his adult growth now, and a good steel blade in his hand.
* * *
Watching from his hiding place in the reeds, Harrow was impressed. Not by the way the boy held the knife—pitiful, that was—but the mere fact he would do so. And stand his ground, in face of such a threat. Harrow had observed the one called Gianni before. The creature was not dangerous to Harrow himself, of course. But he was a fearsome monster for the marsh-dwellers. Very large, strong, half-crazed, and driven by savage and perverted reasons.
Harrow wondered at the boy’s reasons. Powerful they must be, to cause him to stand his ground. Harrow had little doubt the boy could elude Gianni in the marsh if he wished to do so. The one called Gianni was strong, yes; but also clumsy and slow afoot.
Yet . . . the boy clearly intended to fight. Very powerful reasons he must have. And thus, Harrow suspected, reasons which were also true and clean.
So, a man covered with slime waited silently and invisible in the marshes. Just watching, to see if the reasons he so craved himself might emerge in such an unlikely place.
* * *
Marco had to swallow before he could speak. Then:
“I’m warning you, Gianni—get out of my way.”
“Ye gonna make me?”
“If I have to,” Marco replied unsteadily. Big Gianni had sloshed a step or two closer, and now his knife seemed all too small. Gianni stood as tall as Marco—and Marco was still standing on a hummock that rose several inches above the underwater surface of the trail.
And Gianni had a knife, too; Marco could see the lightning flickering on the shiny surface of the steel. It was ribbon-thin, honed almost to invisibility, but Marco would bet it could leave bleeding wounds on the wind.