Benito could still be useful to Caesare, and if he ever needed anything Marco could supply, Marco could send it surreptitiously through Benito. Honor could still be satisfied that way.
But he needed some way—if he was ever able to poke his nose back into the city—to keep himself housed and fed. And, maybe, maybe, save enough to sneak into the Accademia . . . perhaps with yet another changed name. If he could find some way to make enough money—
Medicinal herbs weren’t all that could be found in the marshes, after all. The other things that were abundant enough were bones. And the way Marco figured it, if someone was superstitious enough to want relics or charms, well, he might as well get the benefit of the money being thrown away. He only knew of one person, though, who might know where he could safely dispose of “smuggled” “relics.”
Giaccomo. Who scared the hell out of him.
* * *
Giaccomo’s was just open; Marco went up to the front porch and through the door, open and aboveboard. He walked, barefoot because he’d stowed his socks and boots in his pack, silently and oh-so-carefully across the wooden expanse of floor. He gave over Maria’s sealed letter, then asked of the man behind the bar in a soft and very respectful voice, if Milord Giaccomo might be willing to talk with him on business. Jeppo left the bar in the care of one of the other helpers and vanished briefly. As it happened, Milord Giaccomo evidently hadn’t gone to bed yet—and was apparently willing to see the frequent bearer of so much of Aldanto’s coin. Jeppo returned and directed Marco with a silent jerk of his thumb. The office.
The door to the office was next to the bar. Facing Giaccomo scared the liver out of him; to sit quietly at Giaccomo’s invitation all alone in the cluttered cubbyhole while the dim gray light smudged the dirty windowpanes, and stammer out his offer, took all of the courage he had left. Giaccomo sat behind his desk, tall, balding—and big, most of it not fat—and looked at him hard and appraisingly, melting away the last of Marco’s bravery.
* * *
“You want to sell relics, huh?” he asked Marco bluntly. “Why?”
Marco could hardly think under that cold, cold stare—he stammered something about needing a lot of money, and didn’t elaborate.
“What?”
“Saints b-bones. Saint Theodoro,” Marco stuttered. “Saint’s bones” were fairly common—a cure and a protection for everything from pox to plague. Caesare had once said that it was a good thing that the saints had such numerous and big bones, the rate the city used them. “And . . . and some fragments of Saint Gerado’s skull . . .” Skull fragments were more precious. But still quite commonplace.
“That won’t get you much money in a hurry.” Giaccomo continued to stare at him, jaw clamping shut on each word, eyes murky.
“Don’t need it in a hurry. Just need to put it t-together. I can get you Strega herbs and charms, also.”
“Huh.” The way the big man kept staring at him, Marco imagined he could see all the way through him. He wondered what Giaccomo was thinking; the man’s opaque eyes didn’t reveal even a hint of his thoughts.
“Well, I don’t deal magic, Christian or otherwise.”
“Oh.” Marco’s plan for independence—and the Accademia—collapsed. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, milord. I guess it wasn’t too good a notion.”
He rose, awkwardly, and started for the door.
“Boy—”
Marco turned, a thread of fear down his spine. Giaccomo wasn’t anybody to trifle with. He wondered if he’d passed the invisible bounds beyond which Giaccomo allowed no one he dealt with to trespass. Giaccomo had a way of dealing with trouble, or potential trouble. It ended in the canal, with a rock tied to one ankle. Splash, gone. He wondered if he looked as deathly white as he felt.
“Don’t you go making that offer anywhere else—”
Marco gulped. He wasn’t quite sure what the look on Giaccomo’s face meant, but he thought he’d better answer with the truth. Or part of it.
“I w-wasn’t going to, milord.” he replied. “You were the only one. I got more sense than to deal with anybody but you. Milord, I got to be going, please, milord. You likely won’t be seeing me again. Ever. That’s a promise.”