Benito winced. That was nothing less than an impossibility, as Aldanto should very well know. “Ask me to fly. I’ve got a better chance.”
Aldanto managed a quirk of the right corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid you’re probably right. I should know better than to ask you to do something no one else can.” He stared at Benito, then stared though him; thinking, and thinking hard. “All right; go ahead and give her a hand. See if you can’t keep her from being totally suicidal.”
Benito grinned and shrugged; so far as he could see, both he and Maria had won. He’d told Caesare—and he hadn’t been forbidden to help or ordered to hinder. What little conscience he had was clear, and he was free to indulge in the kind of hell-raising he adored with Aldanto’s tacit approval—
He prepared to turn and scoot down the hall to vanish into the downstairs bedroom he shared with Marco, when Aldanto stopped him with a lifted finger.
“But—” he said, with the tone that told Benito that disobedience would cost more than Benito would ever want to pay, “I expect you to keep me informed. Completely informed. Chapter and verse on what she’s doing, and when, and how. And I want it in advance; and well in advance.”
Benito stifled a sigh of disappointment.
“Si, milord,” he agreed, hoping his reluctance didn’t show too much. Because he knew what that meant. Maybe he wasn’t going to have to try to stop Maria—but now he was honor-bound to keep her from trying to do the kind of things he’d like to pull. And what that meant, mostly, was keeping things quiet. Damn. “Quiet” wasn’t half the fun.
* * *
Hey, this one didn’t work out too bad, Benito thought, inching along the rough beam to the opposite corner of the grille and ignoring the splinter he got in a palm. Pain was for later. He attacked the next bolt.
Quiet—and nothing to connect me or Maria to the mess when all hell breaks loose. Caesare was happy enough about that. We’re here earlier than planned but I told him every detail. And we’ve been doing well tonight; this is two more windows than I’d figured likely to cut when we planned this.
He had gotten this bolt nearly sawed through when a feral cat yowled from the invisible canal below him. She did a good cat-yowl. . . . It was somewhere to his right, which meant upstream.
Maria had spotted possible trouble.
Benito coiled up the cable saw and stowed it safely away in the buttoned pocket of his breeches, making damn sure the button was fastened and the saw in there. Then he inched, still hanging upside-down, back along the support beam until he met the cross-brace. He switched to it, using both hands and legs, taking it slowly and carefully to avoid making the wood creak, until he reached the end that met the roof, where the gutter was. The drainpipes and gutterwork on Casa Dandelo Isle were sound, even if most of the rest of the building wasn’t; Dandelo got most of its potable water from rain.
Might ask Marco if there’s something we could drop into the roof-tank, give them all the heaves and trots. Benito grinned again in the darkness—he had a fair notion Maria would like that idea real well. It was another quiet one—which would please Caesare. And it was an idea that would cost the Dandelo’s money, real hard-cash money—cash for the doctors, for clean water when they figured out what the cause was, and for somebody to come clean and purge the system. That pleased Benito—and there was always a chance that the fear of plague or sickness in Casa Dandelo would flush some of the Montagnard agents out of their safe-house and maybe into the hands of the Schiopettieri. Hmm—another thought; if they had any human cargo in there, they might have to find another place for the captives. And that would give the slaves a chance to escape. That pleased Benito even more; he didn’t have much in the way of moral scruples, but he was flat against slaving.
He continued to think about this new plan as he grabbed the edge of the gutter and hauled himself up onto the roof with its aid. The metal groaned a little, and he froze, but nothing further untoward happened. He continued easing himself up over the edge. He crawled from that point along the roof-edge, feeling his way and moving slowly to avoid any more noise, until he found the outside corner of the roof and the place where the gutter met the drainpipe. He stopped, taking stock with his ears, and nodded after a bit. The echoes from the water lapping against the building were right for where he thought he was; and he thought he could make out the sable pit of the Grand Canal, a blacker blot in the night-shadows ahead of him. He should be right on the point of Casa Dandelo where the building fronted Rio della Crea—and Maria should be right below him, holding her gondola steady against the pull of the current.