Well, one thing for sure, no matter how badly he’d messed things up with Caesare Aldanto, there were a dozen poor boat-people or fisher-folk babies he’d made a bit healthier.
* * *
From across the Canale di Cannaregio, on the Ghetto side, the three priests watched the boy trotting away. Then, their eyes followed the gondola as it made its way up the Canale and turned into a smaller canal which entered the heart of the Cannaregio sector of the city.
“That boy has become a bit of a blessing for this poor neighborhood,” said Diego approvingly. “That’s at least the seventh child I know of that he’s given medical attention.”
“Nine,” grunted Pierre. “That I know of. Good treatment, too, by all accounts.”
Eneko’s expression was grim; not sharing any of the approval so evident in the faces of his companions. “He’s also the same boy who brought that message to me from Caesare Aldanto. That despicable offer I told you about.”
Pierre and Diego’s eyes widened. “Aldanto?” choked Pierre. “Are you certain?” asked Diego.
Eneko nodded. “Quite certain. I was struck at the time, by the incongruity. Between the villainy of Aldanto and the boy’s own face—the face of an angel, almost.”
“But . . .” Pierre lapsed into silence, for a moment. Then: “I don’t believe Aldanto is guilty of black magic, true enough. But I don’t doubt he’s guilty of almost any other crime. Treacherous to the core, by all accounts. A pure mercenary.” He pointed a finger toward the distance into which the boy had disappeared. “Whereas he . . . He refuses to accept any payment, Eneko. I’ve spoken to that canaler myself. Tonio is his name.”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” added Diego, shaking his head.
“No, it doesn’t,” mused Eneko. “Which is precisely what interests me the most. Why is such a boy working for such a man? Or—perhaps more important—why has such a man taken such a boy under his wing?” He cocked his head at his two companions. “Aldanto is indeed, as Pierre said, ‘a pure mercenary.’ So what is his mercenary reason in this instance?”
His two companions looked at each other. Pierre shrugged; Diego sighed. “I suppose this means you want me to investigate something else.”
Eneko chuckled. “I don’t think it will be as bad as all that, Diego. If the boy is a healer—” Eneko pointed across the canal at the Cannaregio district. “You’ve met Father Mascoli. I introduced you to him just a few weeks ago. Ask him first. If the boy is as well known in this area as all that, as a lay doctor, Mascoli will know who he is.”
“The Cannaregio,” muttered the Castillian. “The Ghetto’s reputation is bad, but overrated. There are other places in Cannaregio whose reputation is . . . not.”
“I’ll protect you,” said Pierre stoutly. “From sin, of course. Footpads—you’re on your own.”
Eneko clucked. “The only danger you’ll face in the Cannaregio is from cutpurses. And since neither of you has a purse . . .”
He ignored the glares coming his way. Insouciantly: “Righteousness, brothers. Always the best armor.”
Chapter 32
Marco made good time across to Dorsoduro; he’d have at least an hour with Rafael before he had to head back. He was glad to get there; the overcast had given birth to flurries of cold rain, and his nose felt numb.
If Rafael was there—
The Al Caraveillo tavern was the likeliest spot to find him; Marco poked his head in the door and got hit in the face with the light and the noise. It was almost as bad as a physical blow after the chill gray of the canalside. It took him a moment to adjust to it.
But when he finally did, he breathed a prayer of thanks to the Saints—for at a table in the rear, book propped up in front of him and huge orange cat spread out like a rug on his lap, was a tall, thin dark-haired young man wearing an Accademia cotte.
* * *
“—so that’s the whole mess,” Marco concluded miserably. He slumped on his hard wooden chair, staring at his own clenched hands, surrounded by the clutter of artwork, books, and other paraphernalia of a student and artist’s life that filled the tiny room that made up Rafael’s lodgings. The lanky student across from him lounged on his unmade bed, chewing his lip thoughtfully.