Kat gaped at Alessandra. “Laudanum? You gave your baby opium in alcohol?”
“The bottle is still in her cupboard,” said Madelena. “She told me it was for the wind . . .” Madelena stared at Alessandra. “Is it bad for babies?” she whispered.
Kat nodded. “Marco says it is dangerous even for adults.”
There was a long silence.
Then Lodovico said: “I have changed my mind. I was going to throw you out. To go and be the harlot you were born to be. Now you will stay. And answer to the Signori di Notte.”
Alessandra smiled pure malice at him. “I don’t think so, old man. I’ll go to my dear Caesare. He’s a rising man, not like the has-been Casa Montescue is. And he owes me for all the information about your business I’ve given him over the years.”
Kat screamed. “No, Madelena! NO!”
Chapter 82
Darkness was falling like a soft shawl across a busy Venice. Out on the lagoon the bargees were busy pulling out the last of the stakes that marked the safe channels. Only an invader who knew his way could come across the lagoon.
The Arsenal would not sleep tonight. Queues of citizens waited for the issuing of weapons.
In campos across the city, citizens of the new militia were drilling under Schiopettieri instructors.
Venice was preparing to fight for her life, and also to strike back.
Harrow was wrestling with a decision. The boys had both signed up. Benito would be going off to the Polestine forts. Marco was headed for Fruili. An ugly face and a bit of hard leaning had let him see both lists. He was sure of it. His inclination said, go with Marco, but he was sworn to guard both boys. He couldn’t be in both places at once. And the Polestine galleys would be leaving first. At last he decided to go and see Luciano Marina. The man made him uncomfortable, always appearing to have the light behind him. But suddenly it felt very urgent. Very, very urgent.
He walked into a noisy Barducci’s. He’d forgotten what taverns were like. This was, if anything, noisier than usual, with people who might be going to die having that last drink at their favorite watering-hole. It fell quiet around him, as he walked across to Claudia. “Need to talk to you. Need to see someone.” It was playing hell with his cover . . . but right now he felt cover was less important than decisive action. He felt the build-up of great and terrible things.
Claudia recognized him. “What the hell do you mean by coming in here, you fool,” she hissed.
“Need Luciano,” he croaked. “Can’t find him.”
Claudia looked at him. Her eyes narrowed. She put the mandola down, and got up. “Come.”
She led him out of Barducci’s and at a jog-trot down towards the Calle Farnese, into Cannaregio. Up to a largish salon next to the Rio San Marcoula boatyard. Luciano was at drill practice too, with the Strega’s tiny but grim-faced arm-militant. To Harrow’s surprise, he realized that the eleven people—a mixture of men and women—were very good. Of course they’d be at a disadvantage with brassbound wooden staves, against swords or axes.
“Come about Marco,” croaked Harrow.
Luciano looked alarmed. “We’ve been watching over him. Our best people have met to scry his movements, his danger. The scryings show nothing.”
“He’s signed up to go to Fruili with the volunteer militia. And Benito is going to the Polestine. I don’t know what to do.”
Luciano turned on Claudia. “And you brought him here, now, about this?”
Claudia lifted her hands defensively. “He came into Barducci’s. He said he needed you. You said . . . well, I thought it must be urgent.”
Harrow felt as he were blundering about in a thick cottony fog. “It is urgent! Well . . . it feels it! Must come to you. Must.”
A wary look came over Luciano’s face. “Chalk.”
“There is none here,” said one of the black-clad men.
“Make a pentacle of those staves, then,” snapped Luciano.
Not two minutes later the ward-candles, hastily contrived from oil lamps, burned inside the circle. Invocation was begun. Harrow watched as a nimbus of light began to dance around one slight woman. Harrow’s scalp crawled.