Well, whatever, it was certainly proving to be a lot easier than he’d thought it was going to be—
He was too well trained to jump at the sudden sound of a shout, echoing across the marsh. It was the voice of a boy calling out a name, echoing out of the depths of the swamp.
“Marco?” It was so distorted he couldn’t really tell what direction it was coming from. “Marco?”
Someone was looking for young Valdosta! He focused his attention on the boy just in time to see him slide off the islet and into the reeds, fast as a lizard and nearly as silently. Harrow saw the weeds shake once—and the boy was gone.
* * *
Saints!
That was Benito’s voice, echoing among the islets. If Marco could hear him, it was damn sure others could. For all of his younger brother’s savvy about the streets and canals of Venice, Benito had no real understanding of the dangers which lurked in the marshes.
Marco slid off the islet, skidding on sharp-edged, rustling grass, slipping on icy mud patches. He splashed down onto the path, ignoring the knifelike cold of the water, and then began moving as quickly and quietly as he could. He wove through the reeds, hoping he’d get to his brother before anyone else did. But he must get there without getting ambushed himself. Marco made scarcely more noise than a snake, keeping his feet under the icy water to avoid splashing, slipping between the clumps of dry, rattling rushes rather than forcing his way through them. Benito’s one hope was that at this time of year, most of the really bad locos were deeper into the marsh than this.
He burst into a tiny clearing unexpectedly, knife at the ready, practically on top of the kid.
“Marco!”
Benito flung himself at his brother, heedless of the knife Marco held, looking well and truly frightened. He clung to him as they both teetered in icy, knee-deep, mud-clouded water. Marco returned the embrace, relieved almost to the point of tears to find him safe.
“Benito—” He hugged him hard. “Thank God—thank God you’re all right!”
Then Marco looked up from the kid clinging to him, to see that they had been surrounded on three sides.
It was the Squalos; a banditti gang of marsh locos. A bad bunch, too. Mostly younger than the general run of the swamp folk; late teens to early thirties. Rumor had it they worked for slavers. When supplies of suitable bodies in town ran low, bodies tended to start disappearing from the swamp.
There were ten of them, ragged, dirty, and predatory. They had spaced themselves in a rough ovoid, standing on high spots at irregular intervals between the reed hummocks, at distances from fifteen to twenty feet from the two boys, except on the side bordering the deep water. Feral eyes gazed hungrily at them from within tangles of filthy hair and beard.
They were in deep trouble.
Marco slipped his spare knife from his belt, feeling the hilt like a slip of ice in his hand, and passed it wordlessly to Benito. Then he shifted his own knife to his left hand and felt in his pocket for his sling and a stone. He got the stone into the pocket of the sling one-handed, and without taking his attention off the gang. With the sling loose and ready in his right hand, he shifted his weight from side to side, planting himself a little more firmly in the treacherous, icy mud. And prayed his numb feet wouldn’t fail him.
“Hear ye finished off Big Gianni, Marco.”
One of the least ragged of the gang members stepped forward. Marco recognized the leader, Grimaldi, by his shock of wild reddish hair.
“Hear yer got pretty good wi’ that sticker.” The redhead made a vaguely threatening gesture with his own thin-bladed knife.
Marco’s hopes rose a little—if he could somehow convince them to go one-on-one with him, they might have a chance. Benito would, anyway, if he could talk the kid into running for it while the gang’s attention was on the fight.
“Good enough to take you, Grimaldi,” he said, raising the knife defiantly. “You want to dance?”