Marco didn’t make much noise, but they heard him anyway. “That you boy?” Chiano called into the dark.
“Si. Chiano, I got trouble.”
“Boy, the world got trouble,” replied Chiano easily. “Neveryoumind. What’s the matter this time? Big Gianni? One of the gangs?”
“Wish it was just that! Somebody jumped me, out at the wharf—a man dressed all in dark clothes, with his face covered, and waiting like he knew I was coming. He had a knife. I think They’ve found me.”
“Damn! That be trouble and more’n ye need!” Sophia coughed. “You got any notion who They be?”
“No more than I ever did. Could be anybody: slave-takers, Schiopettieri, even . . .”
“Milanese,” Chiano growled.
“Damn it all, no! Not Milanese; never Milanese. Milanese would be trying to help me, not kill me!”
“I’ll believe that when I believe . . .” Sophia hushed Chiano before he could say any more.
“Fine,” Marco said, “But whose mama was a Montagnard agent, huh? Who saw Duke Visconti’s agents coming and going? So who should know?” It was an old argument.
“And whose mama was probably killed by the order of the Duke Visconti she served, hmm? Marco, leave it, boy. I know more politics than you do. Still, I notice you may have thought Strega. But you didn’t say it. You off to give Benito a warning?”
“Got to. He’s in danger too.”
“Boy—” This was another old argument.
Sophia chimed in forcefully. “No buts! Ye’re young; this ain’t no life for th’ young. We’ll be all right.”
“She’s got the right of it, boy.” There was a suspicion of mist in Chiano’s slightly crazed eyes. “The Words of the Goddess are complete now, thanks to you. You go—”
Chiano claimed the Words were complete about once a month.
“Look, I’ll be back, same as always. Benito won’t have any safe place for me, and I won’t put danger on those as is keeping him.”
For the first time in this weekly litany Chiano looked unaccountably solemn. “Somehow—I don’t think so—not this time. Well, time’s wasting, boy, be off—or They might find Benito before you do.”
Sophia’s face twisted comically then, as she glanced between Marco and their dinner; she plainly felt obliged to offer him some, and just as plainly didn’t really want to have to share the little they had.
“You eaten?” she asked reluctantly.
Marco’s stomach churned. The fear and its aftermath made the very thought of food revolting.
“Grazie; but no. I’m fine.”
She smiled, relieved. “Off wi’ye, then, ye’d best hurry.”
Marco went, finding the way back to his raft, and poling it out into the black, open water of the lagoon. In the distance were the lights of Venice. But the tide was out. He would have to pole the channels. At least coming back he would be able to run with the turn of the tide at dawn.
* * *
Lots of lights in the city tonight—lots of noise. Marco blessed it all, for it covered his approach. Then remembered—and shame on himself for not remembering before—that it was Solstice Feast. What night of the Feast it was, he couldn’t remember; his only calendars were the moon and stars these days, and the seasons. By the noise, probably well into the festival. But that meant Benito would be delayed by the crowds on the bridges and walkways. That might prove a blessing; it gave him a chance to check all around their meeting place under the wharf for more of Them.
He poled all over beneath the wharf, between the maze of pilings, keeping all his senses alert for anything out of the norm. There wasn’t anyone lying in ambush that he could find, not by eye nor ear nor scent, so he made the raft fast and climbed up into their meeting place among the crossbeams out near the end of the wharf.
The first time they’d met here—after Marco had slipped into the town with his heart pounding like an overworked drum, and passed Theodoro a note to give to Benito—they hadn’t said much. Benito had just wrapped his arms around his brother like he’d never let go, and cried his eyes sore and his voice hoarse. Marco had wanted to cry too—but hadn’t dared; Benito would have been shattered. That was the way the first few meetings had gone.