Mercutio’s eyes flamed with glee. “Who’s the richest, dumbest man in this city?”
Benito snorted. “No contest. The Doge.”
“And what does he love above power, wealth, women—everything?”
“His clockwork toys,” Benito supplied.
“Now—what would he do, do you think, if he’d gone and built a wonderful toy just to send to Rome as a kind of present for the Grand Metropolitan—and he’d sent it to the jeweler to get all gilded and prettied up, and get sparklies put on it—and somebody—borrowed it? And told him he’d get it back only if he left a great deal of money in a particular place—and didn’t tell anyone about it. And told him if he did bring in the Schiopettieri, he’d get his beautiful clockwork toy back in a million pieces?” Mercutio settled back in his chair with a smile of smug satisfaction.
“He’s just dumb enough to do it,” Benito acknowledged, answering Mercutio’s smile with one of his own. “When and where?”
“Tonight, if you’re game. Jeweler just opposite the bridge.”
“Schiopettieri?” Benito asked.
“Got a distractor. Gave Jewel Destre a Turkish-made coat like this’n when he drooled over it. He thought I was groveling.” Mercutio chuckled. “Then this afternoon I sent a couple messages to him and Giancarlo Polo concerning the coat and Jewel’s manhood. Send one more and I’ll guarantee they’ll play knife-talk on the bridge tonight.”
Benito chuckled evilly. “An’ if anybody sees anythin’, all they’ll notice is the coat. So if anybody comes lookin’ for a thief—they go for Jewel. Si. What is this thing of the Doge’s anyway? A timepiece?”
Mercutio snickered. “I heard it’s a clockwork whale he put together for his bath.”
Benito snickered at the notion of a grown man playing with bath toys. “Let’s do it,” he said.
Chapter 72
There were more ways in to any building than by the door, and Benito knew most of them. He and Mercutio began their operation with him going over the roof and down an air-shaft. The air-shaft was very narrow. A year ago, Benito would have slid down it easily. Today—even though Benito didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, he was already showing the stocky and muscular physique of his presumed father, Carlo Sforza. It was a tight fit.
But the air-shaft gave access to a window that was never locked. The window gave on a storeroom holding cleaning supplies, and the storeroom was shared by both the jeweler in question and his neighbor, a perfumer.
Benito opened the outer door to Mercutio, just as all hell broke loose on the bridge.
Mercutio flitted in, Benito out. Crouched in the shadows by the door he kept eyes and ears peeled for the approach of anyone. Innocents could make as much trouble as Schiopettieri if they noticed the boy in the shadows, or that the door was cracked open.
Across the canal on the bridge, torches were flaring, waving wildly; there was clamor of young male voices, shouting, cursing. A girl’s scream cut across the babble like a knife through cheese—a scream of outrage and anger, not panic, and the hoarse croak of a young male in pain followed it.
And Benito saw, weaving through the walkways and heading up the stairs to a bridge, a string of bobbing lights moving at the speed of a man doing a fast trot.
Schiopettieri.
“Mercutio!” he whispered. A slim shadow flitted out the door, shutting it with agonizing care to avoid the clicking of the latch, a sound that would carry, even with the riot going on across the water. A bundle under Mercutio’s arm told Benito everything he needed to know.
He grinned, as Mercutio took off at a trot, heading away from the Rialto bridge. Benito lagged a bit; his job to guard Mercutio’s backtrail, delay any Schiopettieri.
Perfect, he thought with exultation. Worked this ‘un timed as perfect as any of the Doge’s contraptions—
And that was when everything fell apart.
People were looking out of windows, coming out of compartments with walkway entrances, moving toward the bridge, attracted to the ruckus like rats attracted to food. He and Mercutio had counted on that, too—it would cover their trail—
An old man, looking angry, popped out of a shop door in his nightshirt, halfway between Mercutio and the bridge. He was holding something down by his side; Benito didn’t even think about what it might be, just noted his presence and his anger, and planned to avoid him. He looked like he’d been disturbed and wasn’t happy about it—he probably had a cudgel, and he’d take out his pique on anyone jostling him. A lantern carried by someone hurrying toward the fight flared up and caught the gaudy patchwork of the Turkish coat Mercutio wore.