“Tell me what you need,” Dorma said simply. “I gather this isn’t the sort of thing you just leave in the armory or hang on the wall.”
“A—p-place,” Marco stammered. “I need a place for it, somewhere where it’s safe, but where it can be seen by—by—” He flushed. “By the House-head. You, milord. You’re—supposed to be reminded by it, milord.”
Petro nodded thoughtfully. “Will that do?” he asked, pointing behind and to Marco’s right.
There was an alcove between two windows, an alcove currently holding an unimpressive sculpture of the Madonna. The alcove was approximately a foot wider than the blade was long.
“Yes, milord,” Marco said immediately. “Yes. Milord—that’s perfect.”
* * *
A few days later, the thing was done. And he was summoned into Dorma’s presence again.
Marco held his breath, and with all the concentration he could command, placed the century-old hand-and-a-half sword reverently in the cradle of the special rack he’d asked Milord Petro to have made.
Marco stepped back two paces to scan his handiwork with an apprehensive and critical eye.
He’d inspected and cleaned the blade of the sword that morning, that being a small ritual in and of itself. Somewhere in his earlier conversations he’d told Petro that in Venice’s damp climate, he’d have to inspect the blade once or twice a week, and that he preferred not to have to move it too far from its resting place.
He’d been a little apprehensive about that, since this was clearly the Head of Dorma’s private—and very special—sanctuary. But Petro had nodded his acceptance of that, gravely, and then he’d taken the undyed tassel off the hilt, keeping it, not giving it to a servant to be dealt with.
This morning he’d returned the tassel to Marco, now the deep and unmistakable midnight-blue of Dorma’s house colors. That was all Marco had needed. The ancient sword was now ready to take its place in the heart of Dorma.
He knelt again, and reached out to adjust the blade so that the silk tassels hung side-by-side from the hilt, neither obscuring the other. The Valdosta-scarlet and Dorma-blue tassels hung gracefully, shining as only heavy silk could.
Dorma colors. Dell’este colors. Ferrara’s steel.
* * *
Marco wore all of them, now. A main gauche and rapier of more modern design on his belt, sent by the duke. And—on his right hand, a signet ring. A new-cut signet, with an old design. The lion’s head seal of Casa Valdosta.
He would be hidden no longer. After all these years, the secret life in the marshes and the canals, Valdosta had returned to take his rightful place in Venice.
* * *
“It is your grandfather’s opinion—which I share—that you would now be far safer in the public eye, where harming you would be noticed and acted upon. You must come to live here in the Casa Dorma.” Petro Dorma’s gaze weighed and measured Marco before he added—
“Both of you.”
It took all the eloquence that Marco possessed to convince Petro that he did not want Benito—not-entirely-ex-thief, bridge-brat Benito—inside Casa Dorma. At least not for now.
“Caesare Aldanto’s the only one who can control him, milord.” He pleaded earnestly. “I can’t. And you might as well try to tell the tide not to come in, for all he’ll heed you. Caesare Aldanto can keep him safe until he develops a little more sense.”
Marco clenched his hands in anguish on the arms of the chair. “Please, milord—Lord and Saints know I love him, but I know him. He’s Dell’este blood—but wolf Sforza blood also. He’s been on the street since he was a kid. Bridge-brat taught; it’d be like trying to tame a wild kitten. Tell Caesare to bring him around to being civilized. If anybody can make Benito see sense, it’ll be Caesare Aldanto.”
Petro Dorma scowled at the mention of Aldanto’s name, then nodded again—this time reluctantly. “I can’t say that I like it, but you know your brother.” His mouth firmed. “That makes it all the more important that we fulfill our obligations toward you, Marco.” He surveyed Marco’s clothing with a critical eye. “And one of the first things will be an appropriate wardrobe. I’ll have my mother see to that—”