Ducats to buy support . . . inside the Accademia where the sons of Venice’s nobles were an available target.
Marco’s head buzzed, and his gut went tight with excitement. So—Accademia might be involved in this new Milanese policy!
Or part of the Accademia was. Marco was no longer so naïve as to figure that what one priest wanted, the rest did too. Assuming, of course—which those at Elmo’s did—that the bishop’s superiors were aware of his loyalties. Which might, or might not, have been the truth. In either case, it was something Caesare Aldanto would find fascinating indeed.
Marco hustled the last of the dishes into the kitchen, took off his apron, and hung it up for the last time. He had what he needed; time to give Michelo his job back. Now only one thing remained; for Marco to verify with his own eyes exactly what was going on down at the Ventuccio warehouse and how it was being conducted.
* * *
Aldanto was beginning to have a feeling of déjà vu every time he looked up from dinner to see Marco hovering like a shadow around the kitchen door.
“Something wrong, Marco?” he asked, beginning to have that too-familiar sinking feeling. The last time the boy had had that look on his face, that—watcher—had moved in across the canal. And the time before—
The time before was what had gotten them all into this mess.
“Caesare—” the boy hesitated, then brought his hands out from behind his back. “This is for you.”
Aldanto took the slim package from the boy; a long and narrow, heavy thing, wrapped in oiled silk. He unwrapped it, and nearly dropped it in surprise.
It was a fine—a very fine—main gauche, the like of which Caesare hadn’t seen, much less owned, since his Milan days. Light-rippling oystershell folded Damascus steel; perfection from tip to sharkskin handle—balanced so well in his hand that it already felt part of him. Unmistakably Ferrarese workmanship. For nearly a century now, since Duke Andrea Dell’este had had the foresight and cunning to recruit steelworkers from the East and swordsmiths from Spain, and brought them together, Ferrara blades had become the standards whereby all other swords were judged.
He was so surprised that his first thought was that the boy must have stolen it. The Lord knew it wasn’t the kind of thing the boy could afford! But Marco spoke before he could voice that unworthy thought.
“It—it’s from my grandfather, milord,” he said, his face and voice sounding strained. “He says it’s by way of thanking you. He sent me one for Milord Dorma too—seems he wrote and told him who my mother was!”
“He what?” Aldanto tightened his hand involuntarily on the knife hilt.
“He says,” Marco continued, “that he thinks Casa Dorma ought to know, and that I’m safer with them knowing, because they’ll put me where hurting me would cause a vendetta no one wants. ‘Hide in plain sight,’ is what he says.”
“The man has a point,” Aldanto conceded, thinking better of the notion. Relaxing again, he checked the weapon for maker’s marks, and sure enough, on the blade near the quillions found the tiny Dell’este symbol. The old man was a shrewd one, all right—he hadn’t kept his smallish city intact and largely independent while sitting between three powerful forces by being stupid. He had a real instinct for which way to jump. Besides, if Dorma now knew what station the boy really was, the obligations would be turned around. Dorma would now be in the position to negotiate favorably with the guardians of the Po River and the roads to Bologna and Rome.
Marco was the son of an undutiful younger daughter of the House of Dell’este. But the Dell’este honor was legendary. It ran as deep as the heavens were wide. No trading family would want such an enemy. Marco would no longer be the object of charity, and the Dorma would actually wind up owing Aldanto for bringing the boy to their attention. Altogether a nice little turn of events—especially considering that he was being paid by Dell’este to watch over the boys.
“He says,” Marco continued, looking a little relieved but still plainly under strain, “it’s by way of a bribe, milord, for you to keep Benito. He says he doesn’t think we better let Dorma know about Benito at all, not that he’s my brother.”