At least here, facing the Doge’s palace and the lagoon, where not so many people could crowd up against the building, it was easier to hear.
“Keep smiling and waving,” Lopez said gravely, doing the same. Then he and Dorma explained to them how and why it was that they were suddenly the Saviors.
“Dell’este is not one of us,” Dorma said, bowing as one of the House racing-boats passed with every scion of nobility the House possessed manning an oar. “The Knights—well, so far as the average Venetian is concerned, they have only just redeemed themselves for the actions of Sachs and the Sots. And, besides, they aren’t our people either.”
“Nor are we, the foreign clerics, and never mind who sent us here,” Lopez agreed wryly. “And Petro Dorma—” His lips twisted in an attempt to suppress a smile. “Petro Dorma is a fine example of the best of the Casa Vecchie, and he will surely make a great Doge. But he is balding, middle-aged, and has an undistinguished nose. Not the fine figure of which legends are made.”
Dorma chuckled. “True enough. Not”—here, a bit smugly—”that my humble nose is going to stop any of the single ladies of the Casa Vecchie from seeking out my company with an eye to matrimony. But, yes, I will be the first to admit that I do not make an appropriate figure for the future statues which will commemorate this triumph.”
He gazed at Marco and Kat. “You, on the other hand—you are both handsome, young, and—well. That problem still has to be dealt with, but the rumor of your little romance is already sweeping the city. Not so little, actually. You have ended a feud between your families to rival that of the Capuletti and Montague in Verona. You have served as the vessels for the oldest of Venice’s magical protectors, and of a bona fide angelic power. So, I can hardly blame the people for deciding that we old men only sat and twiddled our fingers while you two saved the city. Smile,” he added, as Kat began to object. “And wave. This is what is meant by noblesse oblige, as our Aquitaine friends would say.”
The two youngsters did as they were instructed. But Kat had the sinking realization—sinking like a stone anchor at sea—that the “rumor sweeping Venice” was going to make her life a lot more complicated than it already was. The ugly term adulteress crept into her mind, making her wince. She wasn’t sure if she should keep holding Marco’s hand. But—
His grip was far too firm to resist anyway. Even if she’d really wanted to.
CASA DORMA
“You have used the children quite enough. Go any further and you imperil your souls.”
Eneko Lopez’s words were spoken softly; but, to Enrico Dell’este, they seem to ring through the luxurious salon in Casa Dorma like hammer blows on the anvil in his workshop. As always, the concept of uncertainty seemed utterly foreign to the Basque priest.
The Old Fox’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “If the Grand Metropolitan of Rome refuses your request to found a new order, Father, you might consider taking up prophecy as your new vocation. I’m quite sure you could learn to carve stone tablets, with a bit of practice.”
A nervous little laugh rippled through the salon. Lopez, showing that easy humor which—oddly enough—always lurked beneath his implacable surface, flashed the Duke of Ferrara a quick grin. Then nodded, acknowledging the hit.
The acknowledgement, of course, did not sway him for a moment. “The fact remains, milord, that you cannot manipulate everything for political purposes. Not without risking eternal damnation.”
Petro Dorma coughed, drawing attention his way. “There’s no need to argue the theology involved, Father Lopez. As it happens—for political as well as personal reasons—I agree with you.”
Dorma had not spoken so far, since the discussion over the fate of Marco’s marriage to Angelina had first begun. Everyone had expected him to be one pole of the debate—and quite the opposite one—so his statement brought instant silence.
“A Case Vecchie who is wise instead of shrewd,” murmured Eneko. “Truly we have entered a new age of miracles.”