“Hush!” snapped Katerina, looking around. “What’s wrong?”
“There is something dead down there! And it is full of eels.” The Venice lagoon was famous for its eels. You didn’t want to think too much about what they ate. Benito didn’t even want to say that what he’d touched felt like . . . cloth.
* * *
Katerina could see that the encounter with eels had scared this canal-wise urchin nearly witless. Still, they only had a short time left to find the parcel. Inquiries—discreet inquiries, but nonetheless alarming inquiries—had begun to come in about when the consignment would be delivered. They’d had to take money in advance for some of this lot. The inquiries had been . . . polite. Among that fraternity word had gone around that the Montescue were to be treated with respect. But they’d been insistent, nonetheless.
She shook Benito. Gently, though. “It was only eels. They’ll have gone by now.”
Benito shuddered. It was all Katerina could do to suppress her own shiver of sympathy. She knew only too well just what eels liked to eat. But for the Family, it must be done. “You gave your word.”
“Eels . . .” Benito whispered.
Katerina shook him hard this time. “Come on! We’ve only got a little time.”
The boy looked at her with big eyes. And took a deep breath. “One last try. Try and work out exactly where you put it in.”
Katerina gritted her teeth. She’d been frightened as hell, and lying down too. How would she know? She looked about, trying to gauge things. “A bit further out, I reckon. And maybe a bit more toward the Grand Canal. It’s difficult to judge without the other boats here.” The noise from the embassy hushed. They both tensed. Then from inside came the familiar sound of voices uplifted in the Latin of a plainsong chant.
“Go,” said Katerina roughly, pushing him, hiding her own shrieking nervousness in abrasiveness. As Benito slipped off into the water she decided that she’d try on the other side of the gondola with the boathook she’d brought as a last resort. He wasn’t going to find it. The hook might damage the parcel. But even damaged was better than lost completely.
* * *
He wasn’t going to find it. He knew he wasn’t going to find it. He was only making this last effort for honor’s sake. The bottom had been stirred up by his precipitous flight from the . . . corpse. Now it was so black down here that only the direction his body wanted to rise told him where up might be. It was claustrophobic, crushingly so, down here. He felt around. Very, very tentatively. And his fingers encountered fiber. He almost repeated his rapid ascent before he worked out it was twine. Coarse, thick twine, the kind merchants use for baling. He was almost out of air, but he couldn’t risk losing it. He swam, following the cord. It was a fairly long swim. His hands encountered fabric . . . oilcloth. He had Katerina’s precious parcel. Gripping it with both hands he turned and kicked for the surface.
Something hauled at it. Trying to pull it away from him.
* * *
Katerina was beginning to realize the boy hadn’t lied. Her attempts with the boathook had so far dredged up some scrap metal. It looked like an old bird-cage. And a piece of . . . cord. Baling-cord. She dropped the boathook in her haste to grab it. And it was plucked neatly out of her grasp. Swearing, forgetting the need for silence she snatched at it, nearly upsetting the gondola. She missed. Her sleeve wet to the shoulder, she hauled the boathook she’d dropped out of the water. Fortunately the cork handle—intended for idiots who drop boathooks—had kept it afloat. Shaking the bird-cage remains clear, she hooked furiously.
“That’s me! Stop it! You madwoman!”
To Katerina’s horror she saw she’d hooked the something all right. Benito’s breeches. He was clinging to the pole with one hand and her oilskin-wrapped parcel with the other. Benito jerked angrily at the boathook pole, and Katerina lost her balance. She landed in the water beside Benito with a shriek and a splash. Benito swam away as she came up.