“It ready now?”
“It’s ready. We strain off the leaves. If you leave them, it’ll get stronger and can kill a man.” He suited action to his words. “Here—” He handed the cup to her while he got himself slowly and painfully to his feet. “Let’s wake him up.”
Maria brought a candle with her, and lit the oil lamp beside the door across from Aldanto’s bed. Some of his instincts, at least, were still holding. Caesare was awake and wary as soon as the light touched his eyes.
“Got som’thin’ for ye, layabout,” Maria said cheerfully—real cheer. Marco was touched at her implied trust. “Marco here says it’ll fix ye right up.”
“Oh—” Aldanto blinked, but before he could continue, he began shaking, great tremors that shook his entire body.
“Caesare—” Marco had never used Aldanto’s first name to his face before, but it slipped out. “I mean, Milord Aldanto—”
“Caesare is fine,” Aldanto said wearily, when the coughing fit was over.
“Caesare Aldanto, I’ve had what you’ve got—honest, this will help. And if you don’t drink it, you could get a lot sicker. Believe me—I almost died. You don’t come from Venice. Kids here get it when they’re small. Lot of them die. But if they live, then they will live when they get it again. But you could die. Now, this medicine is going to make you feel even sicker, but I swear to you, it’ll help. On my family’s honor, I swear. But it is going feel like death.”
Aldanto gave him a long, appraising look—then wordlessly took the cup from Maria and drank it down in two gulps.
“Feh—that—is—vile!” he choked, face twisted in distaste. “That better work fast, because if it doesn’t, I’m not drinking more!”
“That’s more words in a row than you’ve managed yet tonight,” Marco pointed out. “We’ll sugar it next time.” Without being asked, Maria brought the brandy and looked inquiringly at Marco.
“Good notion.” He approved, thinking that a bit more brandy wouldn’t hurt and might help keep Aldanto in bed. “Caesare—I hate to ask—but is there anything around here I can use as a bandage? I love old Sophia, but I hate to think where her rags have been.”
“Spare room,” said Aldanto around the brandy.
“I’ll get it,” said Maria.
Aldanto sagged back against his pillows, eyes going unfocused again. Marco carefully unwrapped his hand. The poultice of coltsfoot and lance-leaf plantain and Heaven knew what else was working quite well—and Sophia had included more bundles of the herbs in his pack to allow him to put fresh dressings on the wound.
Despite the herbal poultice the wound looked bad, red and swollen. But it was sealing shut, and Marco thought by the look of it that it wasn’t infected. He was just beginning to realize how lucky he was. His hand ached, but so far as he could tell all the fingers were still working. He could have easily gotten some tendons sliced and wound up with a crippled hand.
“That’s a knife wound.” Aldanto was staring at the wounded hand, surprised and shocked alert.
“It is, Caesare. I know you think I’m a kid, and you’re right sometimes—but you’re not right this time. I had to go into the Jesolo for that stuff. Sophia was the only place short of a real doctor where I was going to find what you needed. A man tried to stop me.”
Now Aldanto was looking wary, even perhaps a bit alarmed. Marco could have kicked himself for not thinking. Of course, Aldanto would suspect those enemies of his of trying to follow Marco—
“No, no,” he hastened to assure him. “Nothing to do with you, he was a marsh-loco. I had to fight him to get through. That’s where I got this, and lost my own knife.”
“Was?”
“Was. And don’t you ever tell Benito I killed a man. He wasn’t the first—but I don’t want Benito to know about that.”
“You have a reason?” Aldanto was staying focused, which rather surprised Marco, given the amount of brandy and the artemisia he had in him, not to mention the fever.
“Because—” Marco looked up from his hand, and he knew his eyes and mouth were bitter. “He’ll think he has to be like me. Next thing you know, he’ll go out looking. He’ll either get himself killed—or he’ll kill somebody, and for all the wrong reasons. And that would be worse than getting himself killed. I remember more than just you from home. I remember what some of the younger Montagnards were like when they were my age and Benito’s. They started like that—first each one trying to out-risk the other—then it got worse. I don’t think he’d ever turn out like them, but I’m not taking any chances on it.”