Lackey, Mercedes & Flint, Eric & Freer, Dave - [Heirs of Alexandria 01] (62 page)

And for all of that, he
still
hadn't seen THE GIRL since that awful day. He'd looked�oh, how he'd looked!�but he'd not seen her once. His only possible aid, Maria, had been unable�or unwilling�to identify her. Marco sighed, recollecting the peculiar jolting his heart had taken when he'd seen her�she'd shaken Angelina Dorma clean out of his head, and herself in.

Well, he couldn't think about her now; he had a ticklish job ahead of him.

Matteo chuckled at Marco's blush, not knowing what had caused it. He was about to toss another jibe in his direction when Christophoro Ventuccio stalked through the outer office on the way to his inner sanctum, and all four clerkly heads bent quickly over their assignments.

For the next bit of information, Marco had to wait until the appropriate book came into his hands legitimately�though he'd agreed to take on the lengthy
Albiona
inventory with the notion of getting at that book in mind. This East-run round ship had sprung a leak in her hold and had as a consequence sustained a bit of spoilage to chalk off on the loss sheets. And
that
was the book Marco wanted in his hands; the "Spoilage, Refund, and Salvage" book�because if
he
was the captain covering tracks, that's where
he'd
have hidden those little spice casks.

And sure enough�there they were; and no one else ever seemed to have quite as much spoilage in such a specific area as Captain Alessandro Montello of the
Jaila
.

It
looked
legitimate; all properly logged, and with no loss on the Ventuccio ledgers. The only thing that the captain had forgotten�were the casks themselves.

The miniature barrels that spices were shipped in were unlike any other such containers in that they were
not
tarred to make them waterproof. Tar ruined the delicate flavor of the spices. They were very carefully
waxed
instead; caulked with hemp and coated with beeswax, inside and out.

This made them very valuable, no matter that they were so small. Cooks liked them to hold flour and sugar and salt. For that matter�a good many used the casks, with the wax coating burnished into their wood until it glowed, as workbaskets, and for a dozen other semi-ornamental purposes.

So even if the spice inside had somehow spoiled, through leakage, or rot, or insect contamination, the
cask
had a resale value. Yet none of those casks from the
Jaila
's inventory ever appeared on the "Salvage" side of the blotter.

And no one seemed to be interested in claiming back part of the value from the company that imported the spice for them. And
that
was very odd indeed.

And it was in the "Spoilage, Refund, and Salvage" book that Marco found out who had ordered and paid for the "spoiled" spices�and who had apparently been so careless, or generous, as to absorb the entire loss.

Casa
Badoero. Spice merchants on Murano.

The next day, and the next, Marco kept strictly to legitimate business, waiting for an opportunity for him to get at the packets of tax-stamps.

The Venetian tax-stamps, placed on an article that had had its duty paid in full, were distributed by a small army of officials,
Capi di Contrada
, who had to report to the Doge and the Council of Ten. The stamps themselves were green paper seals, signed by the officiating
capi
, and each was wax-sealed and stamped twice with a unique number. They were intended to be split into two parts, each half bearing the same number. The first part was sealed with lead and wire to the taxed goods. The second part was torn off and returned, after counting at the Doge's palace, to the appropriate importer as evidence that he had paid his tax-duties to both the Republic of Venice and the Doge. The stamps came in from the Doge's palace in bundles and were kept in the cubbyholes of the tax desk, one hole for each day of the month. At the end of the month some luckless clerk got to check them against the warehousing inventory and file them away. Marco was too junior to be entrusted with such a task�but Matteo Feruzzi wasn't.

Sure enough, at month's end Matteo got stuck with the job. And Matteo
never
had lunch at his desk. Marco waited until lunchtime, when Matteo had gone off to lunch with Rosa and the office was deserted, to make his move.

He slid over to Matteo's desk, counted the little packets and purloined the one representing the twelfth of the month, the day the spice shipments from the
Jaila
had been collected by the Badoero representative. He thumbed through the little slips as quickly as he could, not daring to take the packet out of the office, hovering over in a corner next to the filthy glass window where the light was best. Finally he came to the Badoero slips, and got the name of the officer in charge puzzled out.

Capi
Marco Tiepolo.

Benito was in as cheerful a mood as he'd ever been in his life. Maria was so pleased with the way he'd been handling himself that she had decided to take him further into her confidence.

Well... she'd been damned desperate. But it was a start. Lately, being liked and noticed by Maria had mysteriously become important to him.

She'd flagged him down with the little signal they'd worked out that meant she needed to talk to him somewhere where they weren't likely to be observed. He finished his current run in double-time; then, when there didn't seem to be anybody about, ducked under the second bridge at the Rio de San Martino. He eased his way along the ledge at water level.

And there was Maria, holding her gondola steady against the pull of the canal current.

"
Ker-whick-a
," Benito chirped, seeing the flash of her eyes as she looked in his direction. He skipped over to the side of the boat, keeping his balance on the ledge with careless ease. "What's it you need, Maria?"

"I got a problem," she said in a low, strained voice. "Giaccomo sent me to pick up a payment for him�only after I'd got it, something spooked the Schiopettieri. They're all over the damned water and they're stopping gondolas�"

"And if they find you with a bag of coin�" Benito didn't have to finish the sentence. "Huh. Caesare'd have a helluva time prying you away from the Doge's torturers. Pass it over, Maria. I got to go by Giaccomo's anyhow. They won't stop a runner in House livery, and even if they do, they won't touch Ventuccio money."

"If there's
one lira
missin'�"

Benito pouted, hurt. "C'mon, Maria, Ventuccio trusts me with cash!"

"I ain't as stupid as Ventuccio," Maria replied, but with no real force. "Here."

She pulled a flat packet out of her skirts, a packet that chinked and was surprisingly heavy. Benito raised a surprised eyebrow. Silver at the least�maybe gold. Something
had
gone amiss if Giaccomo had sent Maria out to make a pickup of this much coin in broad daylight.

He slipped the package inside his own shirt. "Keep heading up the canal," he suggested. "If it's
you
they're looking for, an' lookin' for you to head for Giaccomo's, that ought to throw 'em off the scent."

She snorted, and pushed off from the bank. "Tell me m'own job, landsman," she replied scornfully. "Just
you
tend to what I give you."

"
Si,
milady," Benito executed a mocking little bow, then danced back along the ledge to the first water-stair up to a walkway.

Behind him he heard Maria swear half-heartedly at him, and grinned.

Julio Destre had been trailing that canaler Maria for hours�just as the Dandelos had paid him to do. Then he saw her duck under the bridge�and a moment later, saw that bridge-brat Benito do the same.

He snickered to himself. Keeping tabs on the brat after he dropped out of the bridge-gangs and into "respectability" had been well worth his while, after all.

"Jewel" Destre had graduated from bridge-brat to street bravo in the two years since he and Benito had last tangled. He sported a cheap rapier (that he used like a club) and silk scarves and a constant sneer. There were dozens like Jewel on the walkways of Venice, and "work" enough to keep all of them in grappa and scarves, if you weren't too particular about who you worked for. Jewel certainly wasn't. The
Casa
Dandelo might derive its money from slave-trading but their ducats spent like anyone else's.

No one had ever beaten Jewel at anything�no one but bridge-brat Benito, that is. Benito had gotten to Jewel's girl, gotten her off the walkways and out of the gang,
into
the purview of his mentor Claudia.

Which wasn't what the brat had intended, but before you could say "surprise" Lola had gotten installed in an acting-group and acquired a very wealthy patron. And had
no
further need or desire for Jewel and his gang.

It still rankled. Jewel had never forgiven Benito for the way the little bastard had humiliated him. So this looked like a chance to pay Benito back
and
turn a little profit by way of a couple of Dandelo bonuses.

He watched Benito moving in the shadows under the bridge. He squinted, but couldn't make out anything more than a brief exchange with someone in the gondola�just a meeting of a pair of shadows within the shadows. Then Benito squirted out again and scrambled up the water-stairs and on over towards Cannaregio.

So. Maria had transferred whatever it was she'd picked up to the boy's hands�likely because of the Schiopettieri stirring on the water.

He grinned viciously with absolute satisfaction, and headed up the walkway on the brat's backtrail. In a few more moments, he'd have whatever it was Maria had been carrying, and he'd have the boy as well to sell to the Dandelos. Without balls. He was a good age for a trainee eunuch.

Harrow spotted the swarthy bullyboy trailing Benito with almost no effort whatsoever. The scar-faced low-life was so clumsy in his attempts to shadow the boy that Harrow snorted in contempt. This inept street brawler wouldn't have lasted five minutes as a Montagnard agent.

Once Harrow saw that the boy was on the Calle del Arco, Harrow had a fairly good notion where he was bound: Giaccomo's. That boat-woman must have passed something on to him.

The bravo evidently had a shrewd notion where Benito was going as well, since he increased his pace a trifle. It looked to Harrow like he was planning on ambushing the boy down in one of the
sotoportego
that Benito would use as a shortcut on his way to Giaccomo's. Harrow gave up trying to be inconspicuous�there wasn't anyone much in this decaying part of town anyway�and hastened his own steps.

He was almost too late. He hesitated a moment at the shadows next to the Gallina bridge, his eyes momentarily unable to adjust to the darkness of the
sotoportego
after the dazzle of sun in the piazza. Then he heard Benito shout in anger and defiance�and a second time, in pain.

He saw a bulkier shadow in the darkness of the overbuilt alley ahead of him, and that was all his trained body needed to respond with precision and accuracy.

A few heartbeats later the bully was unconscious at Harrow's feet, and Benito, huddled beyond, was peering up at the face of his rescuer with shock and stunned recognition.

Harrow gave him no chance to say a word. "Move, boy," he said gruffly. "And next time don't go down dark places without checking to see if someone's following."

The boy gulped, and scrambled to his feet, favoring his right arm. "Yessir!" he gasped, and scrambled down to his destination as if someone had set his tail on fire.

Harrow saw him get into a gondola twenty yards farther on. Good. He was safer on the water.

Harrow considered the body at his feet, thoughtfully prodding it with one toe. He rubbed his knuckles absently; he'd almost forgotten to pull that last punch; and if he hadn't the bravo wouldn't be breathing. He wasn't sure why he'd held back, now; he was mostly inclined to knife the bastard and push him into the canal�

But that wouldn't keep others of his type from dogging the boy's footsteps. On the other hand, if he made an example of this bravo, he might well save Benito and himself some future trouble.

Some half hour later, Jewel dragged himself, aching in every bone, from the cold, foul water of the Rio del Panada. He was lighter by his sword, dagger, purse, and cloak�at least the terrible, scarred madman had slapped him awake before tossing him in. He clung to the ledge that ran around the canal edge, clinging to the step of someone's water-door. He clung desperately to the sun-warmed, rotting wood, not thinking much past the moment. He hadn't swallowed any of the canal water; but he was bruised all over. The crazy man hadn't smashed bones. He'd shown he was perfectly capable of doing so. Jewel was just grateful to be alive enough to hurt and shiver.

Never, for the rest of his life, would Jewel forget that masklike face, those mad eyes. Or the carefully enunciated words, spoken in a voice like the croak of a marsh-bird.

"Touch that boy again," the mysterious attacker had warned, "and the next time you land in the canal we'll see how well you swim without knees and elbows."

"Katerina!"

Katerina looked up from the water, wary, startled. The last thing she wanted was to be recognized. It was that scamp, Benito. He had blood running out of his nose, and looked pale and frightened. Common sense said she should paddle away immediately. It was bad enough doing runs in daylight without extra trouble.

She stopped and he scrambled hastily into the boat. "Give me a lift a bit away from here. Please."

She sculled steadily as he attempted to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. "You going to bring trouble on me?"

"No. Trouble just got itself beaten up." Benito paused. "But�yes. You'd better let me off. Schiopettieri are doing checks of all vessels. You got anything..."

"We're inside the cordon," she said scornfully. "Don't you know anything? Now where were you going?"

"Giaccomo's," he said, gratefully.