The knight raised his eyes and glared at the dim figure of Sachs in the rain ahead. “I will not forget,” he repeated. “Von Gherens is a proud name. Respected by all. Feared by none save demon-ridden pagans. My family is in your debt as much as I am.”
He said nothing further and, a short time later, quickened his steps in order to resume his rightful place beside the abbot.
Manfred watched him go. “Odd, really. He’s also Prussian—yet so unlike Von Stublau.”
Erik said nothing. Manfred sighed. “And me too, Erik. I will not forget either.”
Finally, a touch of humor came to Erik’s face. “Really? No more carousing? No more—”
“Not that!” choked Manfred. “I meant the other stuff.” His great hands groped in the fog and the rain, trying to shape the distinction—and failing quite miserably.
* * *
It was only later, sculling home, playing over the events of the night that it occurred to Kat that whoever her mysterious customer was . . . she wasn’t Strega. Her knife had been steel and silver—both metals the Strega would avoid like the plague.
But Kat was too tired to think too much about it. Getting free had cost her one ducat—and her scarf, which the wretched abbot had apparently kept—but the rest would soon be sitting safe in her grandfather’s near-empty strongbox.
* * *
When she got home, Katerina collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the infinitely relieved. The gold was safe enough. Good pure unpunched Venetian ducats. The coin valued beyond all others in the world.
It was well into bright morning when she awoke. There was someone in her room, looking through her clothes from the night before. They’d just been dumped in a soggy heap when she came home. Reaction had set in and she’d been just too exhausted.
Her first half-lucid thought was that someone was going to steal the bag of ducats. She sat up and yelled before her groggy mind recalled that she’d taken the gold to the old man the night before.
It was only Alessandra, snooping as usual. “There’s no need to shout the house down! Just because you’ve spent the whole night with your lover and are too lazy get up,” she added tartly.
“Oh, go away!” snapped Kat, rubbing her tired eyes. It was certainly bright out there. “Leave me to sleep. There’s no lover—as you know perfectly well.”
Alessandra cocked her head on one side; raised a perfect eyebrow. “Oh. What’s this hair then? I’m going to look for men with honey-auburn hair with just that touch of red. I mean, I know you’ve got no dowry, but I didn’t really think . . .”
“What are you talking about?”
“This hair from your pocket.” She held up something, golden-red in the sunlight.
Kat blinked. Hair?
Oh, yes. She remembered now. One of hers she’d not wanted to leave with that Strega . . . actually non-Strega she thought, remembering that knife. “It’s one of mine.”
“Ha! The day you have hair that color—”
She snatched it from Alessandra’s hand. True. In daylight, Katerina could see it was thicker and more curled and it certainly didn’t match hers.
So—she must have picked up a hair from the woman herself, not one of her own. In the poor light she hadn’t realized.
She shrugged. “I was snuggling up to Lucrezia Brunelli last night. In my sleep. Now go away before I throw this ewer at you.”
Alessandra turned. “I’m going to tell Grandpapa if you don’t tell me,” she threatened.
Kat reached for the ewer. Alessandra showed a remarkable turn of speed leaving the room, quite out of keeping with her normal languid progress.
Kat lay back again. But like Alessandra, sleep had left the room.
There was a greater risk of being recognized, but she was going to have to start doing more deliveries in daytime.
Chapter 16
Marco was out on his feet by the time he got to Caesare Aldanto’s apartment near the Campo San Polo. Even if he could have found a gondolier at this hour, he had nothing to pay with—all his money and Maria’s had gone into trade goods for Sophia. He had stopped at his apartment long enough to drink some watered wine and get into dry if dirty clothing; figuring that a half-hour more or less would make little difference in Aldanto’s condition. Once dry and warm, he slipped on a waterproof cloak—the rain had begun again—cast a longing look at his bed, and went out again into the night.