While Pierre readied the bowl to reflect the images that came to it, Eneko used a thread of power to “talk” to the scarf. Show us where you have been, was the gist of his spell, and in a moment, a mist passed over the face of the water, and images appeared there, looking exactly like reflections.
Except these reflections were of nothing that was in the room.
The scarf itself was not very old, which was just as well; Eneko hurried past the silkworm, the weavers, the dandy (prone to getting recklessly drunk in foolish places) who had owned it, until he came to the moment that Benito Oro plucked it from the drunk’s neck.
“Ah—” said Diego, with interest. Now they settled down to watch in earnest.
* * *
When the work was finished, the magic dispelled, and the blessed water scattered around the room, Eneko chuckled again. “The Marco boy may be an innocent, but his young companion Benito is certainly not. Which, unfortunately, leaves us knowing not much more than we did before. Since the scarf was stolen only a few days before Marco gave it to the child.”
He rose to his feet. “Still, there is enough here to warrant further effort. Diego, I need to make a trip. It will use up most of what we have, until we get another disbursement of funds from the Grand Metropolitan. But well worth it, perhaps.”
Pierre had risen to his feet also. “It will do us good to live on alms for a while, anyway.”
Diego, still seated on the cot, cast a questioning look upward. “A trip? Where? And to do what?”
When Lopez told him, Diego sighed. “And what makes you think the old man will allow you the privilege? He’s ferocious on that subject, by all accounts.”
Lopez handed him the scarf. “I will give him this. Then tell him how the younger boy acquired it and what the older one did with it. If our suspicion—say better, surmise—is correct, he will allow me to see the portrait.”
“If there is one,” demurred Pierre. “He may have burned whatever existed.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” said Lopez softly. “It is one thing for a man to disown his daughter and cast her out. It is another thing entirely to burn his own memories.”
* * *
“It appears that Marco has come to no permanent harm in his sojourn in the marshes,” said Antimo, carefully. “The money you’ve been sending Aldanto to keep the boys was well spent. Although—” For a moment, Bartelozzi’s prim mouth pursed with distaste. “Needless to say, he’s been letting everyone think that it was his money which rescued Marco.”
The Old Fox chuckled wryly. “You expected Caesare Aldanto to be truthful and modest?”
Antimo shrugged, acknowledging the truth in the little jest. “However, there is another aspect of the new situation you need to consider, milord. A quite unforeseen one. It appears the boys have acquired another protector besides Aldanto—and one who is every bit as skilled, and in some ways perhaps even more dangerous.”
Dell’este put his hands behind his head and rocked back on his chair. “They seem to have a talent for attracting supporters and defenders. That is a valuable trait for the Dell’este,” he said cheerfully. “You might even say: a family custom.”
Antimo looked at him. A steady unblinking basilisk stare.
The Old Fox sighed. “All right, Antimo. Who is it?”
“Fortunato Bespi.”
The chair came down with a thump. The Old Fox looked anything but cheerful. Then he shook his head sharply.
“All right, Antimo. You’ve succeeded! For once you have brought me a piece of information that was so totally unexpected I was at a loss. Bespi! Who would have thought it? All reports claimed he was dead. That he should turn up protecting Lorendana’s children is . . . bizarre.”
There was a long silence. The duke sat quietly. After a moment, he turned his lined old face away from Bartelozzi and stared blindly at a far wall. Moisture welled in his eyes, and, eventually, slowly, a tear found its way down one cheek.
At length Antimo Bartelozzi cleared his throat. “What do you wish done about the matter, milord?”