“He didn’t. It was Ambroso. And I don’t think I need to get up any more. Part of me is up already.”
But her next statement brought him down and struggling to his feet. “Then you can bet Sforza is on his way here already. They simply want to distract the Ferrarese. Venice is the real prize. The attacks on the Ferrarese positions were designed to get Dell’este out into the countryside. They must be coming down the Po.”
“What about those Venetian forts? The Polestine forts. They’ll knock the hell out of a fleet of river-craft with their cannons.”
Francesca bit her lip. “I would expect treachery.”
Manfred reached for his clothes. “I reckon it’s time I had a talk with someone in authority here in Venice. If I suggest Brunelli, Erik will have a fit—although he seems the right man, now that their Doge is hovering between lucidity and death. Who else is in their inner councils, Francesca?”
“Petro Dorma. But he has no love for the Holy Roman Empire.”
Manfred shrugged his surcoat on. “I know him. He’s a good enough seeming fellow. Doesn’t let his feelings show, even if he does dislike us.”
“He doesn’t reveal too much at all. I’m certain that he’s one of the Council of Ten. He is also a Signor di Notte. Since Lord Calenti died, he has been acting as the one in charge of them. He also heads the new militia. He has them under the command of your old friend, Caesare Aldanto.”
“Oh. Well. These are for you, by the way.” He handed her a bundle of parchment heavy with seals.
“What are they?”
Manfred smiled grimly. “Erik’s idea. Signed and sealed warrants for the execution of Bishop Sachs and the Knight-proctors. Erik calls it insurance. And this one is from me. It’s a safe conduct to an audience with Charles Fredrik.”
Francesca was silent. Then she said in a rather small voice. “I have recently become fully aware of just what deep water I have waded into. You know, I did consider betraying you for a while. Not very seriously, I admit. But . . .”
“And my prowess as a lover convinced you otherwise?” said Manfred, hopefully.
She kissed him. “No. Well, not much. Two other reasons. The first, of course, being Erik. I am quite unwilling to bring the wrath of that clan down on my head. I’m sure he has cousins and brothers as ferocious as himself.”
Manfred nodded. “My cousin had his older brother for a mentor. He says Olaf is half troll. And I think he was only half joking.” He cocked his head. “And the other reason?”
Whatever qualms Francesca might have been feeling seemed to disappear instantly. The grin she gave Manfred was not coquettish in the least—just, very cheerful. “I find that I rather enjoy deep waters.”
Chapter 84
It was his last night in town . . .
Benito headed towards the old apartment in Cannaregio. Maybe—if she hadn’t gone to Kat—if he played his cards right—Maria might take the fact that he was going off to war as a reason to repeat their night together. He found himself desperately hoping she would, and—almost as desperately—telling himself he was solely motivated by a manly search for pleasure.
He was unusually deep in thought, walking down the narrow calle. His previous life had been a humble place, but a happy one. The world had been pretty straightforward then. Now . . . for all that it was much more wealthy and luxurious, life was much more complicated. Take this business with Caesare . . . he was starting to put things into place that he really didn’t like, and didn’t want to believe about his hero.
He was at the foot of the narrow stairway when he looked up and saw that the door to the apartment was open. Moonlight made it look like a black pit. Benito raced up the stairs, his mind full of fear. And, as he stepped into the darkness, someone grabbed him. Someone with big meaty hands. “Knew you’d come back, bitch! You killed my cousins!”
Benito stamped down hard—as Caesare had taught him to—and struck back with an elbow with all the strength of his roof-climbing honed muscles. Straight into the pit of the stomach, by the gasp and release.