And the man let out an angry yell.
“You punk bastard!” he screamed, raising his hand. “Break my windows, will you! I’ll give you ‘protection’—”
Too late, Benito saw what the man held was a matchlock arquebus. Too late he yelled at Mercutio to duck.
Too late, as the arquebus went off with a roar, right in Mercutio’s astonished face. His head exploded, blood fountaining as he fell.
Benito screamed, his cry lost in the screams coming from the bridge, the screams of those around the madman and his victim. “Mercutio!” he shrieked, and tried to push his way toward his friend, past people running away from the carnage. But something seized on him from behind, and when he struggled, hit him once, scientifically, behind the right ear, sending him into darkness.
* * *
He woke with an awful headache, and looked up into the eyes of the eagle. When his head stopped whirling quite so much he realized that it was the man with the solid line of eyebrow . . . who had seen him and Kat hide from the Schiopettieri and return to retrieve that package. Who had chased them down the alley outside Zianetti’s. Senor Lopez. He was wearing a simple monk’s habit. Benito pulled away in fear.
“Lie still!” snapped the man. There was such command in the voice that Benito did. Lopez’s hands explored his scalp. Gently. “Well, your skull appears intact. Now lie still. You were noticed. The Schiopettieri are casting around for you. Your burned-face rescuer couldn’t stick about.” He pulled a blanket over Benito. Moments later the voice of the law could be heard.
” . . . a boy. Rumor has it he lives somewhere in this area of the city. Dark curly hair.”
Then the voice of Lopez. “There are thousands of boys in Venice with dark curly hair. Doubtless I have this one hidden under a blanket in my cubicle.” This was said in an absolutely level voice.
Respect in the voice. ” . . . just wondered if you’d seen him, Father Lopez.”
“I did. When I see him again, I will tell him you are looking for him,” said Lopez.
Benito lay still, trapped between the terror of the Schiopettieri and horror about Mercutio’s death.
A minute later, Lopez returned. “Schiopettieri are looking for you. Now. Explain to me what happened. Your burned-faced friend simply deposited you at my door and left.”
Benito sat up, frightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mercutio, my friend . . .”
“With the Turkish waistcoat? The Schiopettieri say he is dead. Killed in the fracas.” Lopez took a deep breath. “I am here to save a city, not to look after little sneak thieves. You are a piece in this puzzle, Benito Valdosta. You and your brother Marco and Katerina Montescue.”
Benito started in fear. “How did you know—” He shrank back a little. It was always said that the Montagnards had killed their mother, had hunted Marco. Benito had always believed that himself. But what if . . . it had been the Metropolitans . . . even possibly this man, or agents of the Council of Ten. Those shadowy agents no one knew.
And Mercutio was dead. His mind just kept coming back to it. Dead . . . What was it that Valentina had said . . . He’ll end up dead, and in two days Venice will have forgotten even his name.
Mercutio was dead. Dead. The whole of his face blown off. Dead.
Lopez shook him. Benito swung a fist at the Spaniard. “He’s dead! Mercutio is dead!”
Lopez sighed. “Go on. Get out of here. You have that young fool’s death on your mind. Perhaps we can talk when you are no longer a boy.”
* * *
As he staggered out onto the street, Benito was vaguely aware that there was something very wrong about that scary priest. Ricardo Brunelli’s guest, at one time, now living in the Ghetto. A Legate of the Grand Metropolitan . . . being attired as a monk and manning a confession booth in Dorsoduro . . . waiting for some great happening. But his mind was too full of the death of Mercutio.