He’d been so hurt when she had accused him. That hair might have blown in the window or something. Didn’t she trust him? And, then, he’d been loving and attentive once he’d gotten over being distant and hurt.
She was still suspicious. But . . . she loved him. How could she let him go? So here she was getting soaked to the skin. She must be the only person on the water right now.
But, no. There was another gondola on the canal. As it went by without so much as a greeting from the other paddler, Maria realized that she knew her. That wasn’t really surprising—she knew most of the boat people. And if anyone would be out in the half dark and rain, it would be “the Spook.”
Maria was grateful, at least, that her destination wasn’t all the way out to Guidecca to drop letters with Captain Della Tomasso this time. Tonight her rendezvous was comparatively close. Too close to the Casa Dandelo and the reek of its warehouses for comfort. You could smell the slaves even in the clean rain-washed air.
She pulled into the little landing. Good. There was no one around yet. She must be early. She shivered. She moved down off the stern to the duck-boards and sat down, huddled against the gunwale.
Someone loomed suddenly through the rainy darkness.
“Well, let’s have it,” grumbled Maria. “I’m wet and cold and I want to get home.”
And then someone else jumped onto the stern behind her.
Maria stood up hastily, reaching for her knife. “Hey! Figlio . . .” Bright lights and stars exploded in her skull. But not before she’d seen that it had been Luciano Matteoni jumping onto the stern of the boat.
* * *
When she awoke it was to the betraying stench of the Casa Dandelo. But all she wanted to do was to be sick and pray the pain in her head stopped. Once she’d cast up everything that was inside her onto the rotten straw, blessed oblivion came again.
When she gradually awoke again . . . naked, cold, still sore, lying on the filthy straw a scant few inches from her own vomit . . . she was leg-shackled too. It was then that the true horror of situation dawned on her.
Casa Dandelo.
Slave traders.
Officially, they were not permitted to touch hide nor hair of Venetian citizens. Officially, their “cargo” was checked. The poor of Venice knew the truth: the Doge and the Case Vecchie turned a blind eye. The Dandelos took what they could and if the slave might complain to the Capi di Contrada signing the cargo outbound on ship . . . they took out the tongue that might wag. Or beat the victim senseless. Either way, the Dandelos never released any of those who found their way into their clutches. They brought a lot of money into Venice, and Venice looked the other way. After all, it was only the poor and unwanted who ended up in their clutches. The Dandelos didn’t want a fuss. As far as the officials of Venice were concerned, their depredations were nearly the equivalent of “human garbage” collection. So long as it stayed that way, the Council of Ten and the Signori di Notte left them to it.
So: who would notice if she was gone? Well, Caesare would be waiting for his message. He’d panic.
A short, dark-visaged, thick-bodied man looked in at her. Instinct made her cover her nakedness. But this man wasn’t interested. You could see it in his look. Merchandise. She was no more appealing to him than a bale of cotton would be. Calm now. Try to talk your way out. “Let me out. I’ve got friends with contacts. Ricardo Brunelli . . .”
The slaver grave a sardonic snort. “You wouldn’t believe how many cousins of the Doge go through here. Anyway, the party wanted to know when you were awake.” He turned and walked off.
“Can I have some water?” Maria called after him.
“If the man says so.”
She was left to her fears. The minutes passed slowly.
The man who now entered walked like a cat. He was very like Caesare in that way. “I’ve got some questions for you about Caesare Aldanto. I will get answers. If I get good enough answers you’ll go free.”