When the door closed behind him, the shaman finally heaved the great sigh of relief he had been suppressing. He was always relieved when he left Jagiellon’s presence, of course. But never more so than when he could hear the heavy robes slithering to the floor and smell, behind him, the coming transformation.
Moving as rapidly as he could without actually running, he scurried down the corridors of the palace in Vilna. It would take the shaman some time to reach his room, for he had deliberately chosen quarters as far away as possible from those of Jagiellon. As far away, in fact, as the immense and sprawling palace permitted.
The distance was still not enough, as far as the shaman was concerned. The stench was getting stronger by the moment, seeming to follow him like a hound. None of the various guards whom he passed noticed it, of course. They did not possess the shaman’s other senses.
Chernobog was feeding.
Chapter 36
Benito hadn’t worried when he’d awakened and seen that Marco’s bed was empty. Marco had been going to work early, the past few weeks, working in a frenzy of earnest activity all day, and leaving work late. Old man Ventuccio himself had come down out of his office to see the handiwork of his new clerk. Too bad Marco hadn’t been there at the time; he’d been out at lunch, and nobody thought to mention it to him when he came back. Of course, the other clerks were probably jealous—half of them were Ventuccio hangers-on anyway, worthless cousins who weren’t expected to accomplish much for their salary.
Benito thought he knew why Marco had been working so hard—he might be hoping to get an advance on his wages. He’d spent all the cash he’d saved on Caesare, and in a week the rent was due on their apartment in Cannaregio. A runner earned about a quarter of what a clerk earned; Benito couldn’t pay it. And if Marco couldn’t raise the ready, it was back to the leaky attics for both of them, unless Aldanto would let them stay on. Which wasn’t really likely. Maria was getting an impatient and irritated look whenever her eyes happened to fall on them. She’d been snapping at Marco for being underfoot, and it was clear to Benito that they’d worn out their welcome once Aldanto had recovered from the fever. He had a fair notion that it was Caesare overruling Maria that was keeping him and Marco in the apartment.
And that despite Benito’s being smart-mouthed with both of them.
With Marco too, which Marco hadn’t much noticed, but he had noticed Benito’s attitude with Aldanto. That had gotten a rise out of him, more than Benito had intended.
He’d backed—no, slammed—Benito into the wall the night before last; and his face had been so cold, so tortured—
“You listen to me, Benito, you listen to me good. You’re messing with fire, I’ll tell you once and not again! Caesare’s an aristocrat, he’s quiet—but he’s killed more people than you have hair, and you’d better think about that hard before you smart him off another time. I don’t know why he’s putting up with you, but I won’t, not any more! I’ll beat you black and blue next time—because I’d rather you were beaten up than dead. Remember he’s a trained assassin. Remember who trained him, and that they murdered Mama before you open your mouth to Caesare again.”
He’d sulked for the rest of that day and most of the next, not speaking to Marco. But he had thought about it, and he’d come to the reluctant conclusion that Marco had been right. Even if Marco was more than a bit touched about some girl. So he’d started to make friendly noises at his brother again.
Thus, all-in-all, he didn’t think twice about Marco being gone. But when Marco wasn’t at work, and didn’t show up there by the time Benito got sent out with his first message, he began to worry just a little.
He came around the corner of Ventuccio’s on his second run of the day and saw a familiar gondola tied up at the base of the stairs with a lurch of foreboding. No mistaking that particular tilt of a weather-beaten hat—that was Maria’s gondola down there, and with Maria in it. And where Maria was—