Lackey, Mercedes & Flint, Eric & Freer, Dave - [Heirs of Alexandria 01] (85 page)

Erik nodded, hiding a grin. Francesca's influence was considerable. She plainly enjoyed this game of politics, and Manfred, too lazy and too obstinate to do it when driven, was letting his private parts lead him into this. Perhaps Charles Fredrik should hire her as an instructor of heirs. "Yes. The Knights are supposed to be independent soldiers of Christ, defenders of Christendom. But they're perceived by many�most, probably�to be the arm militant of the Empire, not the Church. And I get the feeling that the reality is the other way around. They're trying to use the Empire as the political arm of their faction of the Church. Some of the leaders of the Knights, anyway�along with the Servants, I don't doubt."

Manfred nodded in turn. "Power games. Charles Fredrik needs to rein them in."

Erik could almost see him taking it down in his mind. He'd bet he'd repeat it to Francesca within the next few days. Erik sighed quietly. It was all very well Erik's father telling him to stay out of politics. "Your loyalty is to the
Godar
Hohenstauffen, boy. Let them enjoy their wrangles." If Manfred was going to survive, he had to understand these wrangles, as much as he had to understand swordplay.

"So." Erik poked him in the ribs. "What are you lolling around for? We have to be at the church for the test of faith before this wedding. We've got barely an hour before Abbot Sachs is going to be squalling for his escort."

Manfred stood up. "Easy on those ribs. Between you and the hammering they take from Giuliano at the
salle d'armes
of his, I'm too tender for Francesca to appreciate me."

Erik began hauling out the quilted underclothes for their armor. Well suited to armor; ill suited to Venetian summer. "And we're no closer to finding out whether he had anything to do with killing Father Belgio yet," he grumbled. More brightly: "But my rapier-work is coming on."

"Yes, Giuliano said you were better than a blind drunken cow with a rapier handle up its butt... but only just." Manfred retreated, grinning, out of the door, bellowing for Erik's squire-orderly as he went.

He left Erik to his preparations and reflections. Giuliano insulted them both copiously. But he had rapidly moved them under his own, personal tuition. Very few attained that. And while Manfred's weapons of choice would always be dictated by his strength, they were both picking up techniques... techniques that could kill armored, broad-sword-wielding knights. Lessons that should be part of their armory of skills. It was high time the Knights of the Holy Trinity stopped playing religious politics and moved into the real world.

Politics and religion
. Marco looked at the assembled people in the chapel. They were a cross section of the powers of Venice, not "wedding-guests" in the normal sense of the term. Everyone who was anyone was there. The Doge had graced the occasion with his elderly presence. Ricardo Brunelli and his legendarily beautiful sister Lucrezia were there too. The head of the Ventuccio�who looked at Marco as if he'd never seen him before. Other
Case Vecchie
he'd really never seen before, making their appearance, coming to examine the Valdosta.

And plenty of non-Venetian folk, too:

The peacocky condottiere Aldo Frescata. The head of the Milanese "trade delegation," Francesco Aleri. Marco looked him over very, very carefully. Yes. He was the man they'd seen at the mouth of the alleyway. The man Maria said had taken her prisoner, who was in cahoots with the
Casa
Dandelo. Who was probably the director of the Montagnard spies and assassins. Maybe even the man who'd had Mama killed. They greeted each other with urbane politeness and every appearance of disinterest. It left him feeling a bit sick and unconsciously putting his hand onto the hilt of his rapier.

Petro Dorma was making sure that the whole of the power of Venice�of the entire region�saw Marco, knew that he had the Doge's blessing, and also that he had passed this test of faith. The Servants of the Holy Trinity, too, were glorying in this display of power. A nun and several gray-clad monks were doing the slow rounds, sprinkling holy water, chanting psalms. The air was heavy with holy incense. Bishop Capuletti, resplendent in his robes, there to conduct the wedding ceremony later, looked faintly put-out.

Then the bells began their solemn tolling. And the chapel was hushed. In the front of the chapel the abbot had the chalice, the bread, sword and bible arrayed. Obedient to the nudge from Petro, Marco walked forward. The monks began their chanting plainsong. Both fear and misery suddenly knotted his stomach. By the poisonous look that the abbot had given him, he clearly thought Marco ought to fail. And even if he didn't... he was going to be married to Angelina. He should make best of it.

Oh Kat�

If he even began to know where to find her... He'd spent the morning in futile wandering. Asking around. Being treated with
Case Vecchie
respect. He'd spotted Harrow in the distance, but even attempting to reach him to ask him had failed.

Too late now. He bit his lip and walked up and knelt before the altar.

Petro Dorma breathed a sigh of relief. He was fond of Angelina. But he was no fool. She was trouble. The last thing he'd ever expected was for her to catch someone who would be of value to Dorma. A nobleman short of money, perhaps. Almost certainly someone who would be a liability to Dorma�like Caesare Aldanto. Marco Valdosta was an innocent, and in some ways Petro felt almost guilty about catching him this way. But he had to look after Angelina. The boy had no idea just how much the name "Valdosta" counted for among the older
Case Vecchie
.

And among the populace, perhaps even more so. The Valdosta Family was
old
. True, Marco's father had been a wild young man, who married an out-of-town Ferrarese woman too involved in politics for her own good. But Luciano, the paternal grandfather, had been enormously popular. And the Dell'este connection...

The Old Fox might be in trouble right now, with Venice, Rome, and Milan all wanting his steel works. But he was a cunning old man. Ferrara might just hold its own. The Republic's Council of Ten, as Petro had reason to know, were warming again towards their one-time ally. Alliances changed. And the Old Fox knew that Dorma's shipyards needed good steel. And the Dell'este could use an accommodation with the Republic to ship to the east again. If Ferrara survived the gathering condottieri and internal factions, well, then Marco would be rich and powerful. Even if the boy were not old
Case Vecchie
, Dorma would have welcomed the alliance. Petro just hoped Angelina wouldn't drive Marco mad with indiscreet, expensive-to-hush affairs.

Petro sighed again. His duty as her brother would be to help out. He settled back in the pew and watched the ceremony. Unlike Marco, he had no qualms about the test of faith. The boy's goodness was patently obvious. He'd bet the lad had not a hint of a stain on his soul. Unlike himself. When it was over he got up and went to collect Angelina.

To his relief and amazement, she was ready.

Marco knew his normally excellent memory was... having trouble. He was... married? Standing accepting congratulations from the Powers-that-be... from Lucrezia Brunelli herself. "My, but Angelina caught herself a handsome one," cooed the legendary beauty, taking his hands in hers. She tickled his palm with one of her fingers. "You look... almost familiar. Have I met you before?"

Marco swallowed. Not all the lessons in etiquette had taught him how to deal with this. Yeah, I met you on the back stairs of Casa Brunelli, with you in a fury because you'd failed to seduce Senor Lopez....

Was not the right thing to say. "No, m'lady."

She laughed. "Come now, Marco! We're going to be...
friends,
aren't we? Call me Lucrezia." Then she continued�in an entirely different tone. "Well, I wish you a happy married life. You and
dear
Angelina."

Bishop Capuletti, who had just approached them, looked like he might consider making that a very short life, if he had the opportunity.

It was about a month after the wedding before Maria finally got a chance to see Kat.

The Arsenal was working flat out. It was always like that, anyway, this time of year. The convoy for the Golden Horn would leave in a week and the last-minute outfitting was still going on. Now, with a war looming, there was additional work getting the navy's galleys ready.

A couple of cousins waved to Maria as she rowed in with the load of brass nails from Seino's. "Maria, we need a piece of
trompe l'oiel
work for the admiral's cabin fetched from the Botega Giorgione," said the foreman, when she'd off-loaded. He pulled a sour face. "The admiral sent it back because of the cherubs. So they've held it back to the last minute. They're not punishing Admiral Niccolo. They're punishing us. But do you think they can see that?"

Great. That meant into town. Again. Well, she'd see if she could fit a trip to Giaccomo's into her rounds. They said trade was tight in Venice lately, because of the political situation, and you could see signs of it. But not right now. She felt she was being run off her feet, or more like rowed off her shoulders. "Consider it done, Paulo."

He patted her shoulder. "We trust you, Garavelli."

Yeah. They trusted her. The boatyard work was reliable, but for real money she still relied on Giaccomo. And the trouble with the squeeze on trade on the Po, the Vinland trade, and Genoa trying to muscle Venice... everyone was poorer and everything was more expensive. Which didn't worry those who had a lot coming in.

The trouble was�since she'd been living with Caesare, she'd gotten used to those little luxuries, like sleeping warm and dry. But they seemed so short of money, especially with Marco not putting in anymore. Caesare seemed really tight.

She was in a brown study about it as she sculled along to Giaccomo's. It took her a good moment to realize the
"Psst!"
from the gondola resting against the poles was addressed at her. It was Kat. She looked drawn and miserable.

"Been lookin' for you for days," said Maria.

"I went to the mainland," Kat replied dully. "We still own a small farm there. It's mortgaged to the hilt, so we can't sell it. And then Giuseppe didn't give me your note until Madelena decided it might stop me..."

"Crying into your breakfast," finished Maria. Kat didn't look like she'd eaten or slept much in the last ten days.

Kat nodded.

Maria snorted. "She must have been pretty desperate."

Kat shrugged. "She always told me men were like that. I didn't believe her."

There was a time for sympathy. There was also a time for no mercy. This, decided Maria, was the latter. "Like what?"

"False!" spat Kat. "Cheating, lying, and false. Making up to... becoming
engaged
to someone when they say they're not even involved with anyone. Not even seeing anyone."

Maria shook her head. "I don't know what maggot you've got in your head. The only other woman young Marco has 'seen' in the last three months is me. Unless you are talking about women he passed in the street! And he hasn't 'made up' to me. That's for damned sure."

"So how come he suddenly
married
Angelina Dorma?" demanded Kat savagely. "Just suddenly, huh?"

Maria shrugged. "Because she's
more
than three months pregnant."

Kat stood there gawping like a carp, abruptly out of water. Eventually she managed a small "oh."

"Yes. 'Oh.' Marco is so 'good' it almost shines out of him. He's done this because he felt it was the right thing to do. I wanted you to help me to talk him out of it. That's why I tried so hard to get hold of you. He doesn't love her, and never did. He had a 'she's a gorgeous
Case Vecchie
girl' crush on her. She didn't even know
he
was
Case Vecchie
. She's a tramp. But... well, it's too late now."

"Are you sure... about it all... about the baby?"

Maria nodded. "He's a terrible liar. He might lie to save someone else pain, but not himself. And he told me straight out. I'm sorry, Kat."

Now it was time for comforting. Maria hitched the gondola, and climbed over and held Kat for some time. The chiming of bells suddenly started Maria back into a realization of her duties.

"Hell. I've got to move. I'm supposed to have that picture back there for them as soon as possible! Look, you must go and see Benito. Talk to him. Confirm what I said. You can find him outside Ventuccio's just after lunch. I've got to go."

Lunchtime for runners saw Benito draped in his usual spot over the lower railing of the Ventuccio stairs, absorbing lunch and sunlight at the same time. He was blind and deaf to the traffic into Ventuccio behind him, intent as he was on his study of the canal below, until an elegantly-booted foot nudged his leg.

"Hey, kid," drawled a smooth voice, rich with amusement. "How's the trade?"

Benito looked up sharply from his afternoon perusal of the traffic and stared, his mouth full of bread. He
knew
that voice!

Wiry and thin, dark hair falling in a mass of curls to below his shoulders, Mercutio Laivetti leaned elegantly on the walkway rail beside him, grinning, looking very like a younger, darker, shorter version of Caesare Aldanto. Benito took in the slightly exotic cut of his clothing, the well-worn hilt of his rapier, the sun-darkened state of his complexion at a glance, before bursting out with his reply.

"Mercutio!" he exclaimed, scrabbling to his feet, and throwing his arms around the older boy�boy still, for Mercutio was only a year or two older than his brother, Marco. "Where've you
been
? I was thinkin' the Dandelos got you!"

Mercutio laughed and ruffled Benito's hair, but did not attempt to extract himself from the younger boy's embrace. "Had to make a trip to the East, kid�for my health." Benito let him go and backed up a step, looking up at him in perplexity. Mercutio tapped Benito's nose with a playful fingertip. "Not to make a story out of it, laddie, but my dear father turned me in to the Schiopettieri. Hopped a ship one step ahead of 'em, and worked my way to Turkey and back. Didn't have much time for goodbyes."