“It is still God’s work,” insisted Sachs.
Manfred found himself yawning in sympathy. He suddenly felt drained.
Two sturdy-looking Schiopettieri took up the corners of the blanket and lifted Lord Calenti. He whimpered faintly. One of the worried looking Venetian noblemen cleared his throat. “May we talk to you about it?”
Manfred looked at Erik. The Icelander showed no signs of following the procession. “What do you say, Erik? A glass of wine would be nice.”
Erik swayed slightly. “Some of that grappa might be even better.”
Two of the Venetians looked a trifle taken aback. The third, a shorter balding man who was considerably younger than the others, smiled. “Why not? Lord Calenti is in good hands. There does not appear to be anything further to do here. Let us go and sit these good knights down, give them a well-earned glass and see what they have to say.”
* * *
An alarm bell rang in Erik’s head. Nothing more to do here? He looked hastily around the salon. Someone had righted the desk and taken away the smashed chair. They’d also taken away the laboriously gathered partially burned bills of lading and accounts from the bankers. Only two or three badly burned fragments, which must have been within the circle, still lay on the floor.
“Do you know what happened to the bills that were here? A whole stack of them? In that corner?”
The three shook their heads. “They will doubtless have been taken somewhere for safekeeping,” said one, as Manfred gathered up the three remaining fragments.
“Not just thrown away?”
The balding, slightly plump man laughed. “In Venice! Never. We are a republic of traders. And that means records. Half the reason we make a profit out of you northerners is poor bookkeeping on your part. Come. There is a tavern just around the corner. Zianetti’s. I remember it well!”
They walked to the tavern past knots of worried, peering students. In silence, except for the bald-headed nobleman quietly informing Erik and Manfred that he was Petro Dorma. He did not mention the names of the other two Venetian lords.
Inside Zianetti’s, Dorma secured a room at the back. Once everyone was seated, he poured the strong Italian brandy which was already on the table.
“Now,” said oldest of the three. “Tell us what happened.”
Erik shrugged. “The doorman at the Imperial embassy received a note from a runner. The note was sealed with Lord Calenti’s official seal. It was addressed to us, by name, but it was taken to Abbot Sachs who was meeting with the knight-proctors. They called us in.”
“I expected them to haul us over the coals, like we were bad children,” said Manfred with a grin.
“The abbot told me to open the letter and read it to the assembled proctors,” said Erik, managing not to smile at Manfred’s accurate assessment. “Lord Calenti asked us, and only the two of us, to please come to his rooms here before Sext. He said it was of greatest importance. Since it was then well past Terce, we left immediately, on the abbot’s instruction. A party of knights followed some ways behind us, so as not to frighten anyone who might be attempting an ambush.”
Manfred shrugged. “It looks as if someone tried to kill him before he spoke to the Knights.”
“All he did manage to say to us was that he’d uncovered treason that almost had the Knights—and himself—as unwitting dupes. And that accounts are a more powerful tool than all the spies in the world. Then he started to say something about the incident at the House of the Red Cat, but the attack came before he got out more than a few words.”
The three looked startled, obviously recognizing the name of the bordello. So Erik had to recount that episode. He edited it, cutting Francesca’s part out entirely. He could still feel his face glowing despite that.
“Well, we can find out where those orders came from,” said the eldest. He was plainly familiar with the near-dockyard bordello, which led Erik to suspect that he was—or had been—an officer of the Venetian fleet. Probably an admiral, judging from the man’s easy assumption of authority. The main clientele of the House of the Red Cat were naval officers; common seamen frequented less expensive brothels.