Harrow felt his scarred lip curling into a stiff and soundless snarl, thinking of the Duke of Milan’s treachery and the willingness of his tool Francesco Aleri to further that treachery.
But, soon enough, he pushed the anger aside. The Goddess had given him other work, after all.
His thoughts turned to young Marco. The boy’s . . . considerateness . . . shone through every item in that bundle. Duke Visconti had carelessly handed out gold—of which he had plenty. This boy had next to nothing. There’d been nothing careless in that bundle. The kid was unlike anyone Harrow had ever known before; he was—kind, that was it. Compassionate in a way that Harrow didn’t really understand, and could only admire from a distance. The younger boy—that one he understood, but the older one—never. Marco’s type was the sort he could appreciate, but never emulate. But he understood why the Goddess might have a purpose for the child of such an unlikely woman as Lorendana Valdosta.
Well, I can’t be like that, he thought somberly. But I can do what the Goddess put on me; I can help that boy survive to do some good. That ought to count for something.
He settled himself a bit more comfortably, and thought about the warning the boy had delivered. That was something he hadn’t thought of; he hadn’t considered Caesare Aldanto except as a fellow guardian.
Better make sure not to ever let him get a look at me, he decided thoughtfully. Even as scarred up as I am, he might recognize me. And he won’t be seeing Harrow—he’ll be seeing Fortunato Bespi. A threat. And I know damned well how Caesare Aldanto responds to threats.
Then he grinned in the dark, his lips curling like stiff, old leather. No threats from me, Caesare Aldanto, we’re on the same side, as it happens. Just like old times. But Francesco . . . you bastard, you—
His grin turned into a feral snarl. Let’s just see you try and get past Caesare and me together, Milord Francesco Aleri. Let’s just see you get at the boy through me. I might leave enough for Caesare Aldanto to play with, after.
Chapter 47
Marco had another mission tonight, besides that of dealing with the man who called himself Harrow. He’d had a suspicion for some time that there was something not quite right in the Ventuccio books; today that suspicion had become a certainty. And it was something that might well be very valuable to Caesare Aldanto. Maybe valuable enough to repay what Aldanto had spent for his sake.
When he locked the front door and listened for signs of life in the apartment beyond, he heard footsteps in the kitchen; shod footsteps with a certain lightness to them. Only one of the four living in this apartment wore shoes on a regular basis; so Caesare was home, and puttering about in the kitchen again. Well enough. Marco always preferred to accost him back there, it was a friendlier place—small, tiled in a cheerful terracotta, and always warm—than the sitting room.
He padded down the hall to the rear of the apartment and stood, quiet as you please, in the doorway of the kitchen, waiting for Caesare to notice him. He’d been trying to imitate the wallpaper ever since the disaster of this winter, doing his level best to become invisible whenever he was in the apartment. He’d evidently gotten quite successful at it, for Aldanto got halfway through his finocchio soup before he noticed Marco standing there, twisting his cap nervously in his hands.
“Marco, I almost didn’t see you! Are you hungry? There’s enough for you if—” He looked, then looked again, and frowned. “Have you got something on your mind?”
“It’s—something I think you ought to know, Milord Caesare,” Marco replied quietly, edging into the cone of light cast by the oil lamp above the table.
“Lord, boy, don’t tell me you’ve been writing poetry again,” Aldanto groaned, putting both the bread and the spoon down. “It’s been a long day; I don’t think I could handle another romantic crisis.”
Marco blushed, but took heart at the ghost of good humor in Aldanto’s eye. “No, Caesare, it’s—there’s something funny going on at Ventuccio.”