* * *
“Milord, just let me get him sat—milord, he’s all right!” Marco heard Benito over the roaring in his ears, over the scrape of a chair on the floor “You don’t—milord, you don’t need—”
Something shoved up against the back of his legs; hands were under his armpits letting him down easy, the same strong hands then pushing his head down between his legs.
“Stay that way for a bit—” Aldanto’s voice. And the roaring went away, his eyes cleared. When his head stopped spinning he looked up. Aldanto sat on his heels beside him, Benito looking frantic, trying to get between them without touching the man. “Better?”
“I—” Marco managed. “I—”
Aldanto took his chin in one hand, tilted his eyes into the light, scrutinizing them closely.
“I’m sorry, milord, I’m all right,” Marco whispered, thinking, Daren’t, daren’t show weakness in front of this man! “Honest, I’m all right.”
“You’re not—but you will be.”
Ignoring Benito’s worried protests (Great, thought Marco dizzily, now he realizes we could be in trouble), Aldanto went to the table and brought his glass of wine to Marco, who took it with hands that shook so hard the wine slopped. Poison? No—not likely. Not when he’d had the chance to kill them easily and hadn’t. An assassin as physically capable as Aldanto so obviously was, wouldn’t bother with anything other than a blade. Not, at least, dealing with two poor boys in a place like this.
“Get yourself on the outside of that.”
Marco sipped, the alcoholic warmth spreading from his stomach to the rest of his body. His hands stopped shaking, slowly.
“When did you last eat?”
“Eat?” Marco was taken totally by surprise by the question and the funny half smile on Aldanto’s face. “Uh—I don’t remember.”
“Then it’s been too long. Small wonder you’re falling at my feet. They’re reserved for women, you know.”
As Marco tried to adjust to the fact that Aldanto had just made a joke, the blond man turned to Benito. He held out a piece of silver. “Go out there and get some bread and risi e bisi.”
Benito scampered, and returned with a steaming bowl moments later. Some customer was going to have to wait a little longer for his dinner. The thick green rice-and-pea soup was set down, and Benito scampered off to fetch bread and a bowl of shaved Parmesan. Aldanto held out the spoon to Marco.
Marco stared at it as though it was alive, not taking it.
“Go on, eat.” Aldanto pried one of Marco’s hands off the glass and pressed the spoon into it. “Marco—”
God and Saints, they were saved. Marco’s head spun—this time with relief.
“About the Ventuccio—”
Marco took the bread which Benito had now brought. He dipped it into the soup and took a tiny bite. He swallowed around a lump in his throat, and began.
* * *
When Marco had finished telling Aldanto all he knew and most of what he guessed, and when his knees could hold him upright again, Aldanto considered them both carefully for several long moments. Marco took advantage of his preoccupation to finish every drop of soup and every crumb of bread.
“Something must be done with you two,” Aldanto said at last. “The safest you can be is in plain sight. And Ventuccio can do that better than anyone.”
Marco didn’t argue with him—after all, he’d just proved how poor his own judgment was. Aldanto pondered something silently for a very long time, while a young riot of shouting youths passed by outside and moved on.
“I think it’s not too late to get speech of Ventuccio,” Aldanto said abruptly. “It’s Solstice, after all. Come along.”
Before Marco could protest, before Benito could do anything more than look stunned, Aldanto had chivvied them out of the door and onto the walkway. Benito, for once, looked appropriately apprehensive, but that could easily have been because he’d run errands for Ventuccio and reckoned on being recognized there.
Aldanto had not been speaking rhetorically, for a brisk walk brought them straight to Casa Ventuccio proper.
At least he didn’t take them to the main door of the great house. Instead, he led them down to a water-door, where he tapped out a sequence of knocks, and was answered.