And Caesare would die. “You can burn in hell, figlio di una puttana.”
His hand twitched. “You are lucky there are bars between us woman,” he snarled. “Any more lip from you and I’ll see that you end up as a whore in Aleppo, servicing a hundred fresh-from-the-desert rancid camel drivers a night. You think you’re tough. You might last a year.”
She spat at him.
He wiped the spittle away from his face. “It seems you need to think about it. Let’s see how well you spit after a day of being dry.”
* * *
Tonio’s whistle woke Marco. Sick child. Must be very sick to call Marco out of bed. Marco seemed to be suffering from a lack of sleep these days. He’d been to see Rafael the night before. He’d been for another private meeting with Milord Petro Dorma last night. He liked the balding, chubby, perpetually worried-looking Petro. He also got the feeling that, although Dorma would be funding his studies at the Accademia, Petro was using him as a window into the world of the tradesmen and canalers.
Again, Tonio whistled. Louder. Eyes bleary, Marco fumbled about, dragging on clothes. By the lack of light coming in through the shutter crack it was very early.
Tonio whistled again; louder still. He’d have the whole neighborhood awake in a minute. Benito thrust open the shutters. “He’s coming,” he said crossly to the boatman below on the dark water.
Tonio beckoned. “You too,” he said.
The two of them, both more-or-less dressed, legged down the dark stairs.
“Who is sick?” demanded Marco, his herb bag in hand. His eyes were still half focused. It was still half dark.
Tonio pointed to the gondola attached to his vessel by a rope. “Couple of the night fishermen picked it up on the tide-wash. They brought it to us.”
Marco recognized the boat now. Maria’s. A terrible sinking feeling hit his gut.
“Maria?”
Tonio shrugged. “Maybe she fell overboard.”
“Get real, Tonio!” snapped Benito. “Maria wouldn’t even know how to fall off a boat, any more than you do. She was born on one.”
Tonio shrugged. “Accidents happen,” he said grimly. “Sometimes people help them to happen. You’d better go tell that fancy-man sellsword of hers.” There was disapproval in the canaler’s voice.
Benito took a deep breath. “Yeah. We’d better.”
Caesare took it with a rigid face, allowing not one trace of emotion to show. “She’ll be at the bottom of a canal with weights on her feet, I’m afraid. I should never have let her go out last night, in that rain. But she said they were relying on her. She said she’d overnight at Murano, if the rain got worse. I didn’t worry too much . . .”
He shook his head, regretfully. “Leave me alone, please. I need some time.”
“Sure, Caesare,” said Benito quietly.
“Can I bring you a glass of wine, Caesare?” asked Marco.
Caesare smiled wanly. “No. Just leave me alone, please.”
Benito and Marco went downstairs again. Marco found the emptiness and helplessness hard to bear. Benito snuffled slightly. It was a long quiet morning. Neither of them had it in themselves to go to work. Caesare had not come down, but they felt they should be on hand, perhaps . . .
The bells had just rung Sext when Marco decided he’d had enough. “Benito, I’m going across to Rafael.”
“I’ll tag along, if that’s all right.”
Marco understood the feeling. He didn’t really like the idea of Benito being out and about and maybe in danger either.
* * *
“You’re sure she’s dead?” asked Rafael
Marco shrugged. “How can we be sure? But what else? They found her vessel, not her.”
Rafael pursed his lips; looked at them thoughtfully for a while. “I do know someone who might be able to tell you if she’s alive or dead. It is a little magical skill that he has. Do you have any of her clothing?”
Marco shook his head. Benito fished in his pockets. “Scarf she’s been wearing?” he asked, pulling it out.
“That should work. Come on. He’s over at the Marciana Library this morning.”
* * *
Luciano looked up from the book he’d been peering at. The ink was old and fading. His eyes were tired. And there coming toward him was a sight for sore eyes: Rafael de Tomaso and Marco and Marco’s brother. Well, it was time he made formal contact. He looked back among the stacks. There was Harrow. The boy was still protected.