Eneko made no attempt to resist. The man’s strength was enormous.
“Why are you following the boys?” the man rasped.
“I’m not,” replied Eneko calmly.
“You’ve been watching them,” snarled the scar-faced man. “I’ve seen you—you and the other two. And tonight, at Zianetti’s—”
Eneko laughed softly. “I wasn’t trying to talk to them. I wanted to talk to the girl they were with. The one they call ‘Kat.’ ”
The man released the cassock and stepped back a pace. “Why?” he demanded.
“None of your concern,” said Eneko, shaking his head. “But I will tell you that I mean her no harm. I simply wanted to pass a message on to another through her. Unfortunately, she left too quickly.”
The man grunted. “The whore.”
Eneko cocked his head. “That’s not a term I use. But . . . if we’re speaking of the same woman, I wonder how you know who she is.”
The man took another pace back. “I’m charged with protecting the boys. I watch everything—everyone—they come into contact with.”
“Charged by whom?” asked Eneko mildly.
The man shook his head. “None of your concern.” He turned on his heel and left, not bothering to close the door.
Eneko followed, standing in the entrance. “Stop,” he said softly. The man, now halfway down the alley, paused and looked over his shoulder.
“Should you ever have need,” said Eneko, “I will help you with your task. Those boys are vitally important.”
The man’s eyes seemed to widen a bit. “Smart, for a priest.” Then he was gone, moving more quickly and silently than Eneko would have imagined such a scarred lump of a man could possibly do.
When he turned back into his room and closed the door, he found Pierre and Diego already there. The door to the adjoining cells was open. Pierre held a cudgel in his hand.
Seeing the cudgel, Eneko clucked. “We are not a militant order, Pierre.”
“Define your terms,” came the instant retort. “And remember that I’m a Savoyard peasant, not a theologian.”
Chapter 60
Swords clashed in a high-speed flurrying dance of steel. Not for the first time, Manfred wondered how Erik could be so damned quick. The edges were blunt, there were buttons on the points, and they wore quilted jackets. So why did Erik always leave him feeling he had been half skinned and half beaten? He put in another determined rush. If he was going to feel like that, so was Erik.
“Hold.” A voice commanded. They put up the practice swords. “You must go to Abbot Sachs’s chambers.” Von Stublau looked sour enough to curdle milk. “He has some Venetian lord to see you.” He looked disdainfully at the training rapiers. “Pah. Too light for a knightly weapon.”
“But very fashionable,” said Manfred with a grin, knowing this would irritate the surly Altmark knight.
“Enough, Manfred,” said Erik before the slow-thinking knight had time to respond to Manfred’s lure. “We train with broadswords on the pells, Ritter. But these give us more of a chance to learn how to respond to a live opponent. Come Manfred, the abbot and this Venetian lord won’t thank us for keeping him waiting. Help me out of this jacket. We need to get some kind of mask also, if we’re to do this ‘fencing’ properly.”
Manfred pulled the quilted jacket off his mentor, and turned so that Erik could do the same for him. “We’re neglecting the legs, too. We need a trainer, Erik. A master of this Italian bravura style. I’ll ask Francesca.”
Erik turned hastily, to see if the supposedly celibate knight-squire had an audience. But fortunately Von Stublau had left. “It’s not a bad idea, Manfred. I don’t care what Von Stublau says—for marine warfare, anyway, armor is history.”
“I like armor myself,” grumbled Manfred, as they made their way up to the abbot’s rooms. “But I’ll admit having a horse to carry it helps.”
* * *
The Venetian waiting for them with the abbot was the balding one of that group of Signori di Notte that they’d met after they’d saved Lord Calenti from being magically murdered.
Abbot Sachs was doing his best to be pleasant. It sat ill with the cleric. “Ah, Ritters. Signor Petro Dorma has requested specifically to speak to you two.”