He eyed the little bombard. “Can you fire that from the bow of the boat?”
Gerhard Bach looked indignant. “Are you cra—” He broke off, coughing, as if he’d just remembered he was addressing a high-ranking Venetian official rather than a young knight-squire. “Ah, no. Sir. That’d be a very bad idea. The recoil would probably hull the barge. It’s not designed to be a gun platform.”
Dorma frowned. “Then how—”
“I’ll figure something out,” replied Bach cheerily.
Dorma shrugged. “I leave the matter in your capable hands, then.” He turned to Erik. “Any questions?”
Erik looked at him uncertainly. Yes. How in the hell did you ever get the Council of Ten to agree to this—much less the Doge? But he decided that question would be impolitic. If rumor was to be believed, Dorma himself was a member of that secretive body. As for the Doge . . .
Petro coughed. “I might mention that the Doge has given me his blessing. Well. In a manner of speaking.”
Again, he eyed the bombard. “I told him we needed to test a new mechanism. He was quite engrossed in his clocks at the time. I took his wave as a gesture of assent. It seemed a reasonable interpretation.”
Erik nodded solemnly. It seemed a reasonable response. And less likely to get him in trouble than any words he could think of.
Manfred, as usual, suffered no such inhibitions. “Foscari’ll probably have a heart attack when he finds out. On the other hand—” the big young knight swept his arm in a half-circle “—I think you’re about to become the most popular official in Venice.”
Erik and Dorma turned their heads, following Manfred’s gesture. Erik was startled to see the size of the crowd that had already formed alongside the canal, with more and more people pouring in from little side streets. And as the flotilla passed by a small side canal, he could see that it was full of gondolas. All of them were packed with onlookers, for all the world as if they were going on a family promenade. As soon as Lord Dorma’s flotilla passed the mouth of the canal, the much larger flotilla of gondolas came following behind.
At first, Erik was surprised that the crowd was so quiet. Almost completely silent, in fact. But before long he understood. Venice’s canalers and working classes were still not sure about the nature and purpose of Dorma’s flotilla. True, it looked as if . . .
But the Venetian authorities had a long history of looking the other way, when it came to the transgressions of the Dandelos. So who could be sure that this would not just turn out to be another empty gesture?
“They’re wondering about us,” murmured Manfred. “Look at ’em whispering back and forth, all through that mob. On the one hand, the Knights are supposed to be nothing but tools for the Emperor—which means the Montagnards, to them. On the other hand . . .”
He examined his fellow Knights, standing in the barge, and grinned. “We are a rather fearsome lot to be hauling around just for show.”
Erik wasn’t sure whether to smile or frown. Once again, Francesca’s influence on Manfred was showing. Not so many weeks ago, Manfred wouldn’t have been able to analyze a foreign crowd so surely and readily. For that matter—not so many weeks ago—the thought of doing so would never even have crossed his mind. Wine, women, and song, it had been—and very lightly on the “song.” Since he’d met that one particular woman, however . . .
He doesn’t even drink that much anymore. Will wonders never cease?
But he had no time to pursue the thought further. The grim and imposing edifice of Casa Dandelo loomed ahead of them. Even at a distance, it was obvious the Dandelos had forted up. There was not a person to be seen anywhere in the immediate vicinity.
Except one.
“What in the name of God is that boy doing?” demanded Von Gherens. “Crazy kid!”
Erik stared at the small figure perched on one of the timbers holding up the roof of Casa Dandelo. “Perched” like a bat, not a bird. The kid was hanging upside down.