He turned. Aldanto sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, eyes half-closed, but not at all sleepy, fishy-smelling breeze coming in the open window and ruffling his hair.
“No, Caesare,” Benito replied uncertainly. “I’ve—been thinking.”
He could feel Aldanto considering him from under those half-closed lids; weighing him.
“You’ve been thinking?”
“I’m a fool. Lucky, but—Mercutio was lucky for a while.”
“And you saw what riding luck got him.”
“Si.”
“And what do you propose to do about this revelation?”
Benito couldn’t stand looking at that expressionless face. He dropped his eyes to his own feet; bare, callused, dirty, and covered with little scratches. “Don’t know, Caesare,” he muttered. “Just—you need help, m’brother needs help—and I don’t how—what to do. I just—want do it smart, that’s all. I want to be able t’ do things. An’ if somebody decides to put a hole in me—”
He looked up again, his chin firming stubbornly, a kind of smoldering anger in the bottom of his stomach.
“—if somebody decides to put a hole in me, I don’t want it to be for no damn reason!”
Aldanto licked his lips a trifle, his eyes no longer hooded. “You’re asking my advice.”
“Si,” Benito said. “I’m asking. And I’ll take it. I ain’t going to be a fool any more.”
“Dorma,” Aldanto replied.
Benito wrinkled his nose doubtfully. “Milord? What’s Dorma got to do—”
“Petro Dorma has been made aware of the fact that there are two Valdosta boys in Venice. It is only because of my effort and Marco’s that he hasn’t had his people out to bring you in regardless of your wishes in the matter.” Was that a hint of smile? If so, it was gone before Benito had a chance to identify the expression. “We persuaded him that until you wanted the shelter of Dorma’s patronage, it would be—a less than successful venture. He continues to inquire about you. He has a very strong sense of obligation—” It was a hint of a smile. “—has Milord Dorma. He’s a powerful, influential man. Keeps quiet, but has a following. I wouldn’t mind knowing what happens at Dorma. You have eyes that see things that your brother doesn’t.”
“But—Marco, he wants to be a doctor,” Benito felt moved to protest. “I ain’t smart, not that smart—what am I supposed to do?”
“What did your grandfather tell you to do? I know he sent you a note not long ago.”
Benito remembered, as clearly as if he had Marco’s perfect memory, the words of his granther’s note. It is your duty to take care of Marco. He has no talent for lying, no ability to deceive. This is not altogether bad, as there should be one in every generation who understands and believes in Dell’este Honor. But those who believe in the Honor need those who understand the price of Honor to care for them.
“He told me to take care of Marco.”
“Why you?” said Aldanto quietly.
“Because I’m not good—and the good ones need bad ones to watch out for ’em.” That may not have been what the duke had said, but it was what he meant.
“Ferrara is being squeezed. The Dell’este have not a sure ally in the world. The old Duke is a canny old fox. But Marco could become the Head of the Dell’este in exile.” Aldanto spoke intently, his blue eyes boring into Benito’s. “What then?”
Benito thought about the duke; the clever, canny duke, who understood expediency—and Marco, who did not—and shivered.
Aldanto leaned back on his pillows a little. “So. You see.”
Benito nodded, slowly.
“Then, young milord, I advise you to go to Petro Dorma. And I advise you to ask him to train you in the ways of business. And I further advise you to learn, Benito Valdosta. Apply yourself as devotedly as you did to learning to pick a lock.”
“Si,” Benito said, in a small humble voice. He turned, and started to go—then turned back for a moment. “Caesare—”
Aldanto simply raised one golden eyebrow.
“We’re still in your debt. You call it in, any time—I pay it. Roofwalking too.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” said Caesare, bleakly.
Benito nodded. And he picked his way carefully down the staircase, and out the door, into the dawn sunshine.