Dell’este honor. The Dell’este soul-sword. He wanted to heal people, not cut them down. But honor demanded he must do as the House Dell’este needed.
Petro Dorma couldn’t know these things, but he had evidently understood that the coming of the sword meant far, far more than mere courtesy to a new ally, a new powerful trade partner, or even the Family that had assumed guardianship of his grandsons.
“You realize—we’ve had to change our original plans about you.” Petro spoke reluctantly, as if he regretted having to tell this to Marco. “We were going to sponsor you into the Accademia in anticipation that you would eventually replace Doctor Rigannio. He’s getting old, he’s been hinting for some time that we should start thinking about finding an ‘assistant.’ But now—”
Petro shrugged, helplessly.
“I’m sorry, Marco, but it’s really out of the question. It simply isn’t done, having a son of one Family serving another Family, even in so honored a position as Family physician. Oh, I see no reason why you can’t study medicine, so go right ahead, and we’ll go through with our sponsorship and support. But—”
Marco nodded. “I understand, milord,” he’d said quietly. “That’s just the way it is.”
Dell’este honor.
Dell’este responsibilities.
There was no running away from this. And he had learned, finally, the folly of running. Even Caesare didn’t run from problems—because he had taken on responsibilities. So there would be no “Doctor Marco” living canalside, helping the canalers and the poorest of the canalsiders.
Still . . . Doctor Rigannio, a kindly man, had been letting him be something of an assistant, in the past month or so that he’d been visiting Dorma. Now that he was here he spent more time with him, so long as it was within the House. And Rigannio’d been listening, carefully, to what Marco had poured out to him about Sophia’s cures. That information—slowly, carefully, and with no clues as to the source—was something Doctor Rigannio had taken to leaking back into the Accademia. It wasn’t heretical; and Marco had already seen evidence that it was coming back down to canalside, as the herb-hunters were pointed to new plants, and the results coming into the apothecaries. So he’d done that much good.
And there was something else. He’d been watching these aristocrats, and from the inside vantage point. No one thought any the worse of the Casa heads for having hobbies—some of them pretty odd. Old man Renzi cultivated entertainers. Bruno Bruschi studied Venetian insect life. Carlo di Zecchilo played the flute. Angelo Ponetti made lace, for God’s sake! As long as it didn’t obsess you, the way the Doge’s clockwork toys did, a hobby was actually considered genteel.
There was no reason why the head of an old Case Vecchie family like the Valdosta couldn’t indulge himself in a hobby of medicine. And if he chose to treat the impoverished canalers and canalsiders, well, the medical establishment would be relieved that he wasn’t taking away potentially paying patients, and his peers would consider it no more than mildly eccentric. He could work it out with the priests by explaining that he was discharging religious obligations. As for having the time to do this, he’d been watching Petro; and yes, he was busy, but he did have some leisure time. It was possible.
And the opportunity to so indulge himself—the training to be able to do so—would have come without any strings attached other than those of duty to his family. Not Strega, not Dorma. There were other ramifications—of potential benefit to both Valdosta and Aldanto. He could earn loyalty and gratitude for Valdosta down along canalside that no amount of money could buy. He could earn friends for his Family, and ears for Caesare Aldanto.
“I’m kind of lost here,” he had been saying to his patients, or his patients’ parents. They knew by his accent that he wasn’t canalside born, though what they made of him, he couldn’t guess. “I don’t know canalside. I need friends in the trade, friends who’d tell me when somebody’s setting up to cheat me or hurt me. Not spies, Lord and Saints, no! Just friends—who’ll give me a ride now and again, give me warning if there’s a bullyboy on my tail, and tell me the common gossip everybody knows, but nobody else would tell me. That’s help, honest help, worth more than silver, worth more than enough to clear any debt.”