He watched Benito moving in the shadows under the bridge. He squinted, but couldn’t make out anything more than a brief exchange with someone in the gondola—just a meeting of a pair of shadows within the shadows. Then Benito squirted out again and scrambled up the water-stairs and on over towards Cannaregio.
So. Maria had transferred whatever it was she’d picked up to the boy’s hands—likely because of the Schiopettieri stirring on the water.
He grinned viciously with absolute satisfaction, and headed up the walkway on the brat’s backtrail. In a few more moments, he’d have whatever it was Maria had been carrying, and he’d have the boy as well to sell to the Dandelos. Without balls. He was a good age for a trainee eunuch.
* * *
Harrow spotted the swarthy bullyboy trailing Benito with almost no effort whatsoever. The scar-faced low-life was so clumsy in his attempts to shadow the boy that Harrow snorted in contempt. This inept street brawler wouldn’t have lasted five minutes as a Montagnard agent.
Once Harrow saw that the boy was on the Calle del Arco, Harrow had a fairly good notion where he was bound: Giaccomo’s. That boat-woman must have passed something on to him.
The bravo evidently had a shrewd notion where Benito was going as well, since he increased his pace a trifle. It looked to Harrow like he was planning on ambushing the boy down in one of the sotoportego that Benito would use as a shortcut on his way to Giaccomo’s. Harrow gave up trying to be inconspicuous—there wasn’t anyone much in this decaying part of town anyway—and hastened his own steps.
He was almost too late. He hesitated a moment at the shadows next to the Gallina bridge, his eyes momentarily unable to adjust to the darkness of the sotoportego after the dazzle of sun in the piazza. Then he heard Benito shout in anger and defiance—and a second time, in pain.
He saw a bulkier shadow in the darkness of the overbuilt alley ahead of him, and that was all his trained body needed to respond with precision and accuracy.
A few heartbeats later the bully was unconscious at Harrow’s feet, and Benito, huddled beyond, was peering up at the face of his rescuer with shock and stunned recognition.
Harrow gave him no chance to say a word. “Move, boy,” he said gruffly. “And next time don’t go down dark places without checking to see if someone’s following.”
The boy gulped, and scrambled to his feet, favoring his right arm. “Yessir!” he gasped, and scrambled down to his destination as if someone had set his tail on fire.
Harrow saw him get into a gondola twenty yards farther on. Good. He was safer on the water.
Harrow considered the body at his feet, thoughtfully prodding it with one toe. He rubbed his knuckles absently; he’d almost forgotten to pull that last punch; and if he hadn’t the bravo wouldn’t be breathing. He wasn’t sure why he’d held back, now; he was mostly inclined to knife the bastard and push him into the canal—
But that wouldn’t keep others of his type from dogging the boy’s footsteps. On the other hand, if he made an example of this bravo, he might well save Benito and himself some future trouble.
* * *
Some half hour later, Jewel dragged himself, aching in every bone, from the cold, foul water of the Rio del Panada. He was lighter by his sword, dagger, purse, and cloak—at least the terrible, scarred madman had slapped him awake before tossing him in. He clung to the ledge that ran around the canal edge, clinging to the step of someone’s water-door. He clung desperately to the sun-warmed, rotting wood, not thinking much past the moment. He hadn’t swallowed any of the canal water; but he was bruised all over. The crazy man hadn’t smashed bones. He’d shown he was perfectly capable of doing so. Jewel was just grateful to be alive enough to hurt and shiver.
Never, for the rest of his life, would Jewel forget that masklike face, those mad eyes. Or the carefully enunciated words, spoken in a voice like the croak of a marsh-bird.