Aldanto thought about young Milord Lightfingers loose in Dorma and shuddered. “I think he’s right.” Besides, the boy might just be a main chance.
* * *
Marco carefully calculated his day off to coincide with the day that the Badoero hirelings picked up their consignment from the Ventuccio warehouse. By dawn he was down at the warehouse dock, ready and willing to run just about any errand for anybody. This wasn’t the first time he’d been here—he’d played runner before, when he wasn’t playing waiter’s helper at Elmo’s. He wanted his face to be a familiar one on the dock, so that he wouldn’t stand out if Capi Tiepolo became suspicious. He even had Ventuccio permission to be out here; they thought he was strapped for cash, and he was supposedly earning the extra odd penny by running on his day off.
He’d run enough of those errands by noon that no one thought or looked at him twice when he settled into a bit of shade and looked to be taking a rest break. The sun was hot down here on the dock; there wasn’t a bit of breeze to be had, and Marco was sweating freely. One friendly fellow offered Marco the last of his wine as he went back on shift, and Marco accepted gratefully. He wasn’t having to feign near-exhaustion; he was exhausted. He was mortally glad that the remainder of his self-imposed assignment was going to allow him to sit out here, in the shade of a barrel, and pretend to get splinters out of his hands while he watched the Badoero barge being loaded twenty feet away.
The barge was a neat little thing; newly painted and prosperous looking. The boatman who manned her did not, however, look like the run-of-the-mill canaler.
In point of fact, that carefully dirtied cotte looked far too new; the man’s complexion was something less than weathered—and those hands pushed pencils far more often than the pole of a skip. Marco would be willing to bet money on it. This was no canaler, hired or permanent retainer. This was likely one of the younger members of the Family.
This notion was confirmed when Capi Tiepolo put in his appearance. There was something very similar about the cast of the nose and the shape of the ears of both the good father and the boatman. Even in inbred Venice, features that similar usually spelled a blood-relationship.
It didn’t take long to load the tiny casks onto the small barge; Marco didn’t bother to get any closer than he was. He wasn’t planning on trying to see if the articles were stamped or not. He was doing what only he could, with his perfect memory.
Even amid the bustle of the dock, he was keeping absolute track of exactly how many spice casks—and only the spice casks, nothing else—were going into the bottom of that barge.
Three days later, when the bundle of tax stamps came in, Marco had his answer. Three more casks had gone into the barge than there were stamps for.
* * *
That night he intended to give Caesare Aldanto his full report—but that afternoon he got an unexpected surprise.
A creamy white and carefully calligraphied note from the House of Dorma.
* * *
Marco finished his report to Aldanto, given while he was finishing his dinner in the kitchen, and Caesare was both impressed and surprised. The lad had handled himself like a professional—
Like an adult. He’d thought out what he needed to know, he’d planned how to get it without blowing his cover, and he’d executed that plan carefully, coolly, and patiently. Aldanto pondered the boy’s information, and concluded that no matter how you looked at it, it was going to be worth a great deal to both sides of this messy and treacherous game he played. He nodded to himself, then looked up to see that the boy was still standing in the doorway, looking vaguely distressed.
Aldanto’s approval did nothing to ease the boy’s agitation; if anything, it seemed worse. “Marco, is there something wrong?”
“Caesare—” The boy looked absolutely desperate. “I—got this today—”
He handed a square of creamy vellum to Aldanto; feeling a terrible foreboding, Caesare opened it.