Marco had only thought he was flushing before. Now a painful heat crept up his neck and over his face, until it felt sunburned. He couldn’t counter the sibling, and he knew it. And Brother Mascoli knew that he had won the point.
At least he was gracious enough not to gloat about it. “Just think about what I’ve said, will you?” he asked. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now, just think about it. And while you’re at it, think about all those poor creatures up and down the canals that I can’t help because I haven’t the strength.”
“All right,” Marco mumbled, and when he got to his feet and shuffled out the door, Mascoli didn’t stop him.
* * *
He had already told Benito and Maria that he was going to be late, so he didn’t go straight back; instead he wandered the walkways and bridges trying to poke holes in Brother Mascoli’s argument. If you took him at his word that all of the ritual and incantation of magic (at least as a good Christian would practice it, leaving out all the invocations of heathen spirits and elves and whatnot) was nothing but prayer, then what he had been taught was dead wrong.
Now, Mascoli could have lied, of course. He had every reason to lie; he served the poor, he needed help, and here was Marco who could give that help if he chose to. But Mascoli was, if not a full priest, certainly an avowed and oath-bound Sibling of Hypatia. If he lied—which was, after all, a sin—it was a worse thing than if Marco lied. And more especially if he lied about something like magic, tempting Marco into deep, black sin.
Marco twisted and turned the problem every which way, and still came up with the same unpalatable answer, that what he’d been taught was wrong.
Finally, having worn out quite enough shoe leather, he turned his steps back to Caesare’s apartment, and walked into yet another mess.
At least this time it was none of his doing.
When he opened the door, Maria all but ran into him, only to choke off a muffled curse and half a sob when she saw that it was him in the doorway.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, alarmed.
“He’s gone!” she said, and fled up to the room she shared with Caesare. Fortunately, Benito had been right behind her and filled in the rest.
“Caesare decided he was well enough t’ get up, an’ off he went,” Benito said grimly. “Right after Maria got back. She couldn’ stop him, no more could I. An’ he wouldn’ tell us where he was goin’, when he was gonna get back, nor what he was gonna do. He just went. It was right after he got some message, just after dark, and he took it with him, so we don’t know what it said.”
Marco realized immediately their concern. For a man in Caesare’s condition to leave the apartment was no source of worry, in itself. Not so long as he was going to a tavern, or taking a walk, or—
Anything except . . . “Caesare’s business.”
Marco cleared his throat. “Ah. Ah, was he carrying—
“Yeah, he took his sword,” said Benito instantly, answering the unfinished question.
“Oh hell,” Marco said weakly. Caesare normally didn’t carry any weapon but a poignard. “If I’d been here—”
“Oh, you couldn’ have done nothing with him, neither,” Benito asserted. “He was that set. Said that things was gone to hell with him laid up, an’ that if something or other went wrong ’cause he wasn’t there, he’d be in deep. An’ off he went.”
Think!
“Was he shaky? Did he stagger? Lose his balance?” he asked desperately.
“Actually—” Benito put in a moment of thought. “Actually he looked pretty good. Kinda pale, maybe, but he moved all right.”
We fed him good. He just might get through this, as long as he don’t do something stupid. More to the point, something stupid that takes him too long to finish. His strength’s okay, it’s just—he doesn’t really understand, I don’t think, that he’s got little stamina left.
He took a deep breath; then, sighed. “I’ll go talk to Maria,” he said, and went resolutely up the stairs to the room where he heard cursing and sobs—