“Nothing Erik’d like more,” said Manfred, smothering a guffaw. “But I’m afraid we’ve got to go. Just how do we get out of here?”
She took a key from the drawer. “I was in a house that caught fire once. Since then I have always made sure I had a way out. There is a door at the end of the passage with a hoist-beam for bringing furniture up from the Canal.”
“Ah. Going to be a splashy, wet landing. You don’t want to drink this canal water if you can help it, Erik,” said Manfred.
Francesca smiled lazily at him. “You’d make an even bigger splash than I would. Wait a moment. I have some rope.”
Manfred nodded. “Sounds good. Beats jumping.”
Erik wondered why there would be rope in such a room. Then, seeing the paraphernalia in the closet from which Francesca withdrew the rope, found himself blushing more fiercely. He had never seen such things, although he had heard of them.
But by now Erik had finished dressing, and the relief of being no longer unclothed brought back his usual calm. He turned to the still-naked Francesca, carefully looking only at her face. “Will you be all right? Should we take you with us?”
Francesca shuddered. “Three stories? When the building’s not burning? No thank you! I’m not planning on staying in this establishment much longer anyway. But when I do leave, I will use more conventional means. I am certainly not built for the climbing of ropes.”
Her smile widened to a grin. “My strength is in my legs. I shall use them to walk out of the front door. Quite soon, in fact. This house does not have sufficient cachet for someone of my . . . talents, shall we say. I have no intention of remaining a mere brothel puttana, although it has taken me a while to gather resources. Now, I shall move to the Casa Louise.”
She chucked his chin. “Just remember that you owe me a favor. And now, get out of here before Luigi comes back.”
* * *
They slid down into the darkness. It was just as well they hadn’t jumped, thought Erik. When he dropped lightly off the end of the rope, he found not water but the deck of a vessel. The boatman who had been waiting for the Schiopettieri didn’t expect the “prisoner” to land on his boat. Not, at least, when that prisoner was armed and unescorted except for an even larger friend. But with Erik’s Algonquian war hatchet at his throat, he wasn’t going to argue about taking them away from there.
They left him tied up in his own boat, on the edge of the Grand Canal, a hundred yards away from the Imperial embassy.
Manfred looked back with regret. “You know, that Francesca had a certain something.”
Erik shuddered. “She had a great deal of everything. But still. I owe her a debt.”
“I owe her,” said Manfred, shaking his head. “That sort of thing doesn’t come for free. That’s a mercenary profession if there ever was one.”
“Even ladies of that stamp must have kindly impulses,” said Erik stiffly.
Manfred pulled a wry face. Despite being five years younger than Erik he knew a great deal more about whores. He remembered the look on Francesca’s face when she’d first seen Erik’s surcoat. It had been . . . calculating. The Knights were all at least minor aristocracy. Many were confreres, merely serving a three-year novitiate. He would certainly not put it past that worldly-wise woman to know that. He’d already prepared himself for a hasty argument on price when she’d suggested hiding them, until she suddenly changed her mind or thought of something else. A few moments of Erik’s reactions to a naked woman would have convinced the stupidest harlot that this one was a pure young knight. Francesca’d been very speculative, very suddenly. Manfred gave a low chuckle. He could see that perhaps he’d have to protect Erik against predatory female wiles. Well. It might not be unpleasant. “Yep. Maybe she did,” was all he said.
“I will have to reward her,” said Erik slowly. “Mary Magdalen too . . .”