A lean Luciano, his left arm bloody, stepped forward out of the shadows. “Petro Dorma?”
Petro nodded. “Marina. You’re the one who disappeared, and then came back claiming he’d been on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”
Luciano smiled slightly. “You would know, Signor di Notte.”
Petro’s eyes narrowed. “I would also know that you are under suspicion of being a Strega mage, accused by Bishop Capuletti.”
“He was quite right, for once,” said Luciano calmly. “And given certain guarantees from you, I will give you your five minutes to question Aleri.”
“You admit this?” Petro looked at Luciano with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. “Most of the ‘Strega’ who used to have booths down on the Calle Farnese have proved to be fakes.”
Luciano shrugged. “Yes, I am a real mage. A master, in fact. It is not—yet—a crime not to be a Christian here in Venice, you know. We practice secrecy because the threat of persecution here is very real, not because we have any evil to hide.”
Petro nodded. “True, it is not a crime here in Venice . . . yet. But practicing black magic is. And at least part of the Church defines all magic which is not their own as that.”
Luciano took a deep breath. “Yes. But Rome, to its credit, takes a more liberal attitude than the Pauline fanatics from the North do. And I would not be admitting this to you, if I was guilty of any ‘black magic’ or Venice’s need was not both desperate and dire. If given your word to keep this secret—and you have a reputation for keeping that word—I will attempt some of what the Church would call ‘black magic.’ Necromancy, if you choose the term. I will call back this dead man’s spirit and let you question him.”
Petro looked carefully at Luciano. “What other conditions do you set?”
Luciano opened his palms. “None. Our scrying shows that there can be no survival for the Strega unless Venice survives. I risk the future of our faith, and my own life, by doing this. It is very dangerous for the mage.”
Petro bit his lip; looked down at Aleri. “Very well. What do you need and how soon must it be done? I need to send certain messages about the information we already have.”
“The sooner the better,” said Luciano. “Before the soul slips too far. But I can give you ten minutes while I prepare. And one of your Schiopettieri have arrived. Use them. We can take the body up to Marco’s old room.”
Marco interrupted. “Use my room for that if you wish. But I need to get Harrow somewhere else. One of the hospitals.” He rose, coming to stand next to Kat, and stared down at his protector. “I’ve done as much as I can for him here.” Sighing: “He’ll probably die from disease anyway—damned belly wounds—but he might not, too. God knows if anyone’s tough enough to survive, it’ll be him.”
“Get me some paper,” said Petro, as the wide-eyed Schiopettieri stepped forward. He pointed to Harrow. “And have some of your men take him to the nearest hospital.”
As the Schiopettieri hurried to obey, Petro faced the others. “We can have a message to Duke Dell’este within hours. Our galleys must sail with what force we can muster in the next few hours. And no ship leaves Venice, not for the mainland or for the open sea, that could carry a message to Trieste. I don’t know exactly what Aleri was talking about, but a fleet from there can only be more bad news.”
Kat knew that it was a good twenty leagues to Ferrara. This could only imply that the Doge and the Council of Ten themselves had magical links to the duke. She squeezed Marco’s hand. She was unaware that she had been holding it. Both their hands were bloody.