The man who opened the door frowned ferociously when he saw who it was, but at least he listened to Aldanto’s whispered words and, after a moment, nodded.
“I’ll see about it,” the man growled, and allowed them, grudgingly, past the door to stand waiting in the damp entry while he went away somewhere. Presently, he came back, still looking displeased, but jerked his head as a sign that they should follow. He led them down long, unlit halls of wood and stone, and finally into a room piled with ledgers that was so brightly lit Marco was blinking tears back.
Now they fronted a man Aldanto called by name, and that man was coldly angry. “You have a lot of balls, coming here, Caesare,” the man spat. “And for calling me away from my guests on a night of the Feast—”
“Granted,” Aldanto said coldly. “However, I think you happen to take your honor and your pledged word fairly seriously, and I have just learned that you happen to have an unpaid debt and a broken promise you might want to discharge. These boys are Valdosta. Marco and Benito Valdosta.”
Marco had rarely seen words act so powerfully on someone. The man’s anger faded into guilt.
“I’ve brought them here,” Aldanto continued deliberately, “so that we can even some scales. You made a promise to Duke Dell’este, and didn’t keep it. I—lost you some people. Both these kids are useful.”
Now the man looked skeptical, as if he doubted Aldanto’s ability to judge much of anything.
“Milord,” Benito piped up, “you’ve used me, I know. Ask your people. I’m a messenger—a good one. I don’t take bribes, I’m fast—”
“You could take him on as a staff runner and train him for bargework as he grows into it. And the older boy clerks,” Aldanto continued.
“You don’t expect me to take that on faith!”
Marco took a deep breath and interrupted. “Set me a problem, milord. Nothing easy. You’ll see.”
The man sniffed derisively, then rattled off something fast; a complicated calculation involving glass bottles—cost, expected breakage, transportation and storage, ending with the question of how much to ask for each in order to receive a twenty-percent profit margin.
Marco closed his eyes, went into his calculating-trance, and presented the answer quickly enough to leave the man with a look of surprise on his face.
“Well!” said the man. “For once . . . I don’t suppose he can write, too?”
Aldanto had a funny little smile. “Give him something to write with.” He seemed to be enjoying the man’s discomfiture.
Marco was presented with a quill pen and an old bill of lading. He appropriated a ledger to press on, and promptly copied the front onto the back, and in a much neater hand.
“You win,” the man said with resignation. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s been going on—and how you managed to resurrect these two?”
Aldanto just smiled.
The man took Aldanto off somewhere, returning after a bit with a troubled look and a bundle, which he handed to Benito.
“You, boy—I want you here at opening time sharp, and in this uniform. And you’re not Valdosta anymore, forget that name. You’re Oro; you’re close enough to the look of that family. Got that?”
Benito took the bundle soberly. “Yes. Milord.”
“As for you—” Marco tried not to sway with fatigue, but the man saw it anyway, “—you’re out on your feet. No good to anyone until you get some rest. Besides, two new kids in one day—hard to explain. You get fed and clean, real clean. We’ve got a reputation to maintain. And get that hair taken care of. I want you here in two days. ‘Oro’ is no good for you. Make it—uh—Felluci. I don’t suppose you’d rather be sent back to your family?”
“No, milord,” Marco replied adamantly. “I won’t put danger on them. Bad enough that it’s on me.”
The man shook his head. “Saints preserve—you’re a fool, boy, but a brave one. Dell’este honor, is it? Well, Dell’este can usually deal with most things, too. Anyway . . . Right enough—now get out of here. Before I remember that I’m not a fool. Ventuccio honor’s real enough, but it isn’t that hammered steel version the Old Fox insists on.”