“I settle that one tomorrow.” Chiano’s eyes narrowed. “For good ‘n ever, this time.”
Marco shook his head weakly. “You won’t have to.”
Once the meaning of the words penetrated, Sophia looked up into his face with stunned awe. Gianni was a legend among the marsh-dwellers for his crazy viciousness. That Marco should have taken him out . . .
“There was someone else, too,” Marco added, half-gasping the sentences. “Never saw him. Helped me at the end. I would have drowned otherwise. Never saw him, not once.”
The alcohol had shaken Marco out of his shock and he was beginning to take account of his surroundings again. He noticed Chiano and Sophia exchange a glance.
“Well,” Chiano said. Just that one word, but it held a world of approval. In some obscure way, Marco understood the approval encompassed more than just he himself.
“Boy, you needn’t hide again? Ye didn’t come crawlin’ out here in th’ dark an’ th’ rain fer the fun a’ it.” Sophia came right to the point.
That woke him fully—reminded him of his purpose.
“N-no. I’m fine in town—but Sophia, I need something from you, one of your ‘cures.’ I got a sick friend in town. He’s got a fever—the one with the chills and the sweats every two days. Getting worse. He hardly knows where he is.”
“I know it.” Sophia nodded, her face becoming even more wrinkled with thought. “Only it don’t gen’rally get that bad.”
“Except my friend’s not from Venice.”
“Then that’s bad, boy, that’s real bad. He’ll die, like as not, ‘less ye can get ‘im t’ take my herbs.”
“Look, I brought stuff to trade you—here—” He shrugged out of his pack and passed it to her. “Whatever you want. I got two blankets, a couple of good woolen cloaks, fish hooks, a knife—”
“Haw, boy, haw! Ye got enough there t’ trade me fer every last dose I got!”
“Then give it all to me, Sophia, I got more friends. This fever is startin’ to go through town like a fire—more of ’em may get sick. Strega came into town at Solstice claiming there wouldn’t be any plague this year”—Marco noticed Chiano stiffening at that—”but I guess they were wrong. You can get more, can’t you?”
Sophia nodded. “Aye, aye; stuff’s just wild weeds—know where there’s a good bit of it, still good enough t’ pick. Ain’t no cure though—ye know that—”
“Herbs with Artemis’ blessing,” said Chiano quietly.
Marco smiled wryly, remembering the nausea and the delirium. “I know; it just keeps you from dying—but makes you feel like you want to! Remember? I got it first winter I was out here.”
“An’ ye can get it agin—”
“So I’ll keep some for myself. Deal, Sophia?”
“Si—oh si si, boy, ’tis a deal.” She grinned, a twisted half-toothless grin, as one hand caressed one of the damp blankets. “This stuff’ll make livin’ right comfy out here, come winter. Tell ye what—I’ll pick all I kin find, dry it up nice. Ye figger ye need for more, why just come on out here—by daylight this time, boy!—an’ ye bring old Sophia more things to trade.”
“You got yourself a bargain.” Marco smiled inwardly, at peace with an old debt. Sophia would somehow not keep many, if any, of the “luxuries.” They’d all end up with marsh-folk, keeping other people alive. Sophia was the one person in the reed-fringed Jesolo marshes who slept deeply. She could. Not even the most loco would put a hand to her. Her reputation as a healer was more potent even than Chiano’s reputation as a worker of magics.
“You’ve got to go back t’night?” Chiano interrupted.
Marco looked at the swamp and shivered, but nodded reluctantly. “Got no choice, Chiano. My friend’s bad sick, and you heard Sophia.”
“No, no—not soaked through like that, and it getting up chilly. Sophia, pack your herbs in the boy’s sack. This old man knows the harbor day or night. I got a dry blanket here. You wrap up in’t. I’ll pole you back to the wharf. Say some words over those damned weeds for you too, I will.”
Marco accepted the shred of blanket, speechless with gratitude. And, witnessing the witchlight and certain hitherto unexplained mysteries of his time in the swamp, maybe those words held more power than he’d realized previously. Ecclesiastical magic could heal. Perhaps Strega magics were not the fraud the Petrine church claimed they were, nor the unadulterated evil which the Paulines labeled them.