“I’m waiting,” she said, and “Oh!” when she saw Marco.
Benito shook his head at the question in her glance. “Not now. Later, promise. Gotta find that blond you’re droolin’ after.”
She looked incensed. “I ain’t drooling after him! I just think he’s—nice.”
“Yeah, and Valentina just sings cute little ballads. You know where he is?”
She sniffed. “I shouldn’t tell you. . . .”
“Oh c’mon! Look—I promise I’ll give you that blue scarf of mine—just tell.”
“Well, all right. He’s in Antonio’s over on the Rio della Frescada. I just run a message over there and I saw him. I think he’s going to be there awhile.”
“Hot damn!” Benito jumped to his feet, and skipped a little along the edge of the coppo tiles while Marco held his breath, expecting him to fall. “Bright-eyes, you just made my day!”
* * *
Benito had traded on the fact that he was a known runner in order to get into Antonio’s. It wasn’t a place Marco would have walked into by choice. The few faces he could see looked full of secrets, and unfriendly. They approached the table that Aldanto had taken, off in the darkest corner of the room, Benito with all the aplomb of someone who had every right to be there, even if he was only fourteen years old. Marco just trailed along behind, invisible for all the attention anyone paid him. The place was as dark as Barducci’s had been well lit; talk was murmurous, and there was no one entertaining. Marco was not at all sure he wanted to be here.
“Milord—” Benito had reached Aldanto’s table, and the man looked up when he spoke. Marco had no difficulty in recognizing the Caesare Aldanto from Ferrara. Older, harder—but the same man. “Milord, I got a message for you—but—it ain’t public.”
Aldanto looked at him. Startled at first, then appraisingly. He signaled a waiter, and spoke softly into the man’s ear; the man murmured something in reply, picked up the dishes that had been on Aldanto’s table, and motioned them to follow.
The waiter led them all to a tiny room, with barely room for more than a table and a few chairs in it—but it had a door and the door shut softly behind them. Aldanto seated himself at the table and put down his wine glass. The way he positioned himself, the boys had to stand with him seated between them and the door. The lantern that lit the room was on the wall behind Aldanto’s head and made a sunblaze out of his hair.
“I’m waiting,” was all he said.
“Milord, my brother’s got information that you might be able to use—it might be you and him know the same people. We want to sell it.”
He poked Marco with his elbow. Marco shook himself into awareness.
“Information?” Aldanto did not look amused. “What on earth could you two have that would be of any use to me?”
“Milord, somebody thinks it’s important. My brother has been having to hide out in the marshes because somebody thought it was important enough to kill my mother, but she passed it on to Marco here. See, we know who you are. We know where you’re from. We reckoned you would be the right man to know what he’s got. And we figured you’d be the best man to pay our price—and that’s to keep him safe after he’s told you.”
The blond man began to look angry. “If this is some kind of a scam—”
“Brother,” Marco said clearly and distinctly, “the viper strikes.” It was the password of those in the service of the Milanese Duke Visconti.
Aldanto, who had just taken a mouthful of wine, coughed and practically choked.
Marco took the most recent of his precious copies of The Message from his shirt pocket and handed it to him.
* * *
Hazed with fatigue, Marco was blind to Aldanto’s reactions—but Benito wasn’t.
Within a few moments, Benito had figured Aldanto was not pleased with their recognition of him as a Milanese agent. Moments after that he knew by the worried look that Aldanto wasn’t working for Duke Visconti anymore.
This required recalculation.