Solid. He pulled three times. (“Always three times, no matter how rushed you are,” came Claudia’s voice from memory.) Then he swung himself over, in the shadows all the way.
Within a few minutes Mirko’s shop was lighter by a pair of breeches, a shirt, and a cotte, all sized for someone thin and not over-tall, along with some other small items. And Benito was most of the way back to the wharf, dancing across the rooftops and bridge-beams like a half-grown cat.
* * *
“Huh-uh,” Benito said, keeping his grip tight on the bundle he carried and handing something small to Marco instead. It shone white in the starlight. “I sto—found some soap, too. Down, brother; in the harbor. Get clean first, or they’ll know you, by the smell, for marsh scum.”
Marco flushed with embarrassment—living in the swamp was changing him, and in ways he didn’t like. He used to be so fastidious. . . .
He grabbed the proffered soap and dropped straight down into the water next to the wharf—trying not to remember the twitching thing that had so lately floated there. He was so used to being chilled that the cold water wasn’t much of a shock to his system. He soaped and rinsed and scrubbed until he thought his skin would peel off, then washed his hair three times for good measure. Benito had shinnied down to his raft and handed him back up onto it with a sniff that held approval. “Better. You smell better than a lot of canal-dwellers now. Here—”
A piece of sacking to use for a towel, and a comb. Getting the tangles out of his hair was a job—Marco had to be content with just getting most of the major knots out, and smoothing down the rest, tying it back with the piece of ribbon (Lord—ribbon!) Benito handed him. Then into the clothing—oh, heaven, clean, and warm, and not ripped in a dozen places—and even the right size. The precious Message went into his shirt pocket.
Marco stood up straight with one hand steadying himself on the piling, and felt like a human being again for the first time in years.
Benito grinned at him, teeth flashing white in his shadowed face. “Know what, brother? You clean up really pretty. I can think of a couple of girls just might like to share a blanket with you.”
Marco blushed hotly, and was glad the dark hid it.
“Thought I’d warn you—because that’s who we’re going to go see first.”
They took to the rooftops, much to Marco’s bewilderment; oh, he still remembered how to climb, he was fast and agile enough to keep up—but why not take the walkways openly? And—where had Benito gotten this kind of expertise in roof-scrambling?
It was more of a maze in Venice-above than it was in Venice-below. If there was a level space up here on the roofs that was more than three feet square, it was a rarity. “Up here” was a work of towers, cupolas, skylights, and spires. Benito danced along the spines of peaked roofs and jumped from structure to structure as if he were half cat. Marco followed as best he could. He was just lucky that “above” also sported rain gutters and collection pipes on every surface, for without these aids he’d never have been able to emulate Benito. From time to time Benito would half-start toward something Marco knew was unclimbable—then glance back as if suddenly remembering his brother’s presence and choose some easier path. Marco couldn’t help but wonder what he’d have done if Marco hadn’t been there.
Benito paused on the roof edge overlooking the bridge across the Rio della Misericordia. Balancing carefully, he scrutinized the bridge and its attendant walkways.
“Looks good,” he said finally, in a whisper. “If anybody followed, they’ve lost us. Come on.” And he shinnied down a drainpipe to the walk below them. Marco followed suit. Shielded torches on the bridge danced and smoked; they were placed so far apart they did more harm than good. There seemed to be no one about in this area, and their bare feet made no sound on the bridge, which contributed to the gloomy atmosphere.