He turned on Luciano. “The attack is at least in part magical. The Strega must contest that. Can you damp fires?”
“Rafael will go to see that that is in hand. I must go to the Marciana library. There is a guardian . . . if I can arouse it, it will do more than any fire-damping.”
“Very well. Marco. You will go with this lady,” Petro pointed to Maria. “I will give you a signed order for Admiral Marchese. Ring the Marangona. Rouse the Arsenalotti. Send any men who can be spared to Piazza San Marco. And I want squads of men to proceed to as many of these addresses as they can. Take no chances. Douse any gunpowder they find, or toss it into the canal. And then proceed to rouse any of your canaler friends you can find. Send them to San Marco.”
Marco looked alarmed. But nodded.
“Benito. Your task is the Casa Dandelo.”
Benito smiled savagely. “Yes. Although I’ll arrest Caesare first for you if you like.”
Marco gaped at his brother again.
Petro looked calculatingly at him. “No. I’ll do that. You deal with the Casa Dandelo. Neutralize it. Destroy it.” He sighed. “I go beyond my authority here. To act against foreigners is easy, but a Venetian Casa . . . Even to order a search will take time and manpower I don’t have.”
“The place is like a fort,” mused Benito, considering the problem. In that moment, he seemed much older than he was.
“I know. Do it.”
Benito grinned. “Si. How much gold do you all have? I’m going to need a fair bit. And Maria—you going to come and help when you’ve finished talking to the Arsenalotti? I’ll need a couple of your cousins. Good honest boatmen. I’ll see you at Giaccomo’s. We’re going into the barrel delivery business. And the Signori di Notte and the Schiopettieri are turning a blind eye.”
Maria nodded. “Come and choose them.”
“Si. I’ll need some gunpowder from the Arsenal anyway.”
Petro looked rather warily at the imp he’d just set loose. But he dug into his pockets.
“I guess that leaves me,” said Kat. “I’d better go with my grandfather to Della Tomasso.”
Petro took a deep breath. “No. Lodovico Montescue is old enough not to need his hand held. You go with Marco. We may all be dead soon. You may as well—” He waved a little feebly. “Be together.”
Lodovico looked at Marco Valdosta. Shrugged. “My house is in ruins anyway. Be happy at least, cara mia.”
* * *
Marco faced a crowd, a sea of faces. The torches made the planes of the faces stand out. Showed the lines of hard work and poor food, particularly in the clustered caulkers. Hard times and hard faces. Mouths set in a grim line. His stomach turned itself inside out. He looked at Maria. There was the same grimness, the same determination in that square jaw, as there was on the faces in the crowd. And Maria said that he, not she, must tell the Arsenalotti what Petro had said.
He looked at Kat. She reached out and squeezed his hand, and he realized just how right Petro had been. He still did need someone to hold his hand. “Introduce me,” he said to Maria.
She stood up onto the marble step. “Arsenalotti!”
There were a few cheers. A number of smiles. A good many waves. Everyone here knew Maria Garavelli. Honest as the day was long, even if she had a temper on her that you could boil a kettle on. “What are you doing up there, Maria?”
“This is Marco Valdosta. He needs to talk to you. He’s Case Vecchie, but he has doctored some of your kids. He’s a good man and he’s got a message for you from the Council of Ten.”
Marco got up onto the step. “Thank you, Maria.”
There were a few people clapping. He heard his name repeated. He cleared his throat and looked at Kat. She smiled.
“Who has always defended the Doge, the piazza? On whom has the last defense of Venice always rested?” His voice cut through the silence.
No one answered. Then someone in the back of the crowd said “Not Petro Dorma’s damned ‘militia,’ Valdosta!”