Diego, still seated on the cot, cast a questioning look upward. "A trip? Where? And to do what?"
When Lopez told him, Diego sighed. "And what makes you think the old man will allow you the privilege? He's ferocious on that subject, by all accounts."
Lopez handed him the scarf. "I will give him this. Then tell him how the younger boy acquired it and what the older one did with it. If our suspicion--say better, surmise--is correct, he will allow me to see the portrait."
"If there is one," demurred Pierre. "He may have burned whatever existed."
"Oh, I doubt that," said Lopez softly. "It is one thing for a man to disown his daughter and cast her out. It is another thing entirely to burn his own memories."
* * *
"It appears that Marco has come to no permanent harm in his sojourn in the marshes," said Antimo, carefully. "The money you've been sending Aldanto to keep the boys was well spent. Although--" For a moment, Bartelozzi's prim mouth pursed with distaste. "Needless to say, he's been letting everyone think that it was his money which rescued Marco."
The Old Fox chuckled wryly. "You expected Caesare Aldanto to be truthful and modest?"
Antimo shrugged, acknowledging the truth in the little jest. "However, there is another aspect of the new situation you need to consider, milord. A quite unforeseen one. It appears the boys have acquired another protector besides Aldanto--and one who is every bit as skilled, and in some ways perhaps even more dangerous."
Dell'este put his hands behind his head and rocked back on his chair. "They seem to have a talent for attracting supporters and defenders. That is a valuable trait for the Dell'este," he said cheerfully. "You might even say: a family custom."
Antimo looked at him. A steady unblinking basilisk stare.
The Old Fox sighed. "All right, Antimo. Who is it?"
"Fortunato Bespi."
The chair came down with a thump. The Old Fox looked anything but cheerful. Then he shook his head sharply.
"All right, Antimo. You've succeeded! For once you have brought me a piece of information that was so totally unexpected I was at a loss. Bespi! Who would have thought it? All reports claimed he was dead. That he should turn up protecting Lorendana's children is . . . bizarre."
There was a long silence. The duke sat quietly. After a moment, he turned his lined old face away from Bartelozzi and stared blindly at a far wall. Moisture welled in his eyes, and, eventually, slowly, a tear found its way down one cheek.
At length Antimo Bartelozzi cleared his throat. "What do you wish done about the matter, milord?"
The Old Fox rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Nothing," he said harshly. "Lorendana made her choices. It may be that I failed her as a father. She was a very beautiful child, Antimo. Maybe I indulged her more than I should have. But, nonetheless, she made her own decisions. She lived by them and she died by them. Bespi was a fanatic. Had he murdered her for money, I would have had him assassinated at the time as a message: Killing a Dell'este for money guarantees you will not live to spend it. But Bespi killed to orders, because he was a single-minded fanatic. I would have done as well to have my revenge on a knife. Still true."
He peered at Bartelozzi, his eyes once again as sharp and dry as usual. "Tell me this, however: are you certain that Bespi guards them?"
The agent nodded. "Yes, milord. He could have killed both boys in the swamp as easily as he could two chickens. You know that as well as I. Bespi is--deadly. And I've watched him myself since he returned to the city. A mother hen puts in far less effort caring for its chicks. You know, my lord, how a fanatical foe can turn into the most loyal of defenders, if you can change their hearts."
The Old Fox looked at the man who had many years ago been sent to kill him. "I know that, Antimo," he said quietly.
There was silence, for a moment. Then the Duke of Ferrara clapped his hands in a quick and decisive gesture. "Enough! I trust your judgment. Now, let us turn to the general situation in Venice. The Council of Ten: what of Calenti?"
Antimo shook himself back to the present. "Lord Calenti remains apparently neutral, milord. But . . . we have discovered he has been having a very discreet liaison with Lucrezia Brunelli."
The Old Fox raised an eyebrow. "She's a busy woman. She must have to apportion her time carefully. She's been linked to several other people whom we have watched. Well . . . does this lean him toward the Metropolitans?"
The agent shook his head. "Based on Lucrezia's other . . . paramours . . . I would guess that the tendency is not in favor of her brother's party. Lucrezia is her own woman. Ricardo Brunelli thinks his sister draws her suitors to him. But of the ardent suitors and possible lovers we know of--quite a number have Montagnard sympathies or contacts. Count Badoero, for example."
"A bad egg if there ever was one," said the Old Fox. "Lord Calenti will bear watching. And what of Petro Dorma? Have there been any repercussions from Marco's foray into poetry?"
Antimo shook his head. "No, milord. Apparently, Lord Dorma stifled the usual 'young bravo' sentiment within his own house quite decisively. I have to say I'm growing increasingly impressed by the man. I think he remains our best bet among the Council of Ten."
The Old Fox reached for his quill. "So am I. Well, then. Let us see if we can arrange a little warming of relations between the Dell'este and Dorma. I think the blade that is my grandson Marco has been tempered. It is time to start using it. Let us see if my enemies dare to move openly--when the head of a reborn Casa Valdosta stands forth in Venice under his rightful name."
Antimo looked perturbed. "He may be killed, milord."
The Old Fox shrugged. "If he is, then we will know he was poorly tempered steel," he said quietly.
* * *
When Eneko returned from Ferrara, he said nothing to his companions at first. He simply unwrapped the small parcel he brought with him, and showed them what it contained.
Diego hissed. "Dear God, what a resemblance."
"There is a much larger portrait at Dell'este, in which the resemblance is even more striking. But the duke gave me this miniature."
"Why?" asked Pierre.
Eneko smiled. "I asked him that same question myself. A most interesting answer he gave me. 'You must remember the mother, most of all.' "
"I don't understand," said Diego, frowning.
Eneko placed the miniature on his little writing desk. " 'Old Fox,' indeed," he murmured. "I shall keep the portrait here at all times. To remind me that both boys had the same mother." He turned back to his companions. "And what was she, brothers? An evil woman or a good one? Or simply a mother?"
Diego stared at the portrait, still confused. But Pierre nodded. "Indeed so. The portrait is a reminder to us. A warning, perhaps--of the danger of pride."
"She was indeed a proud woman, by all accounts," mused Diego.
Eneko shook his head firmly. "You misunderstand. The duke was warning us of the danger of our pride." He smiled grimly. "Canny old man. That is indeed the downfall of theologians."
His eyes went back and forth from Pierre to Diego. "We will do nothing with this knowledge, for the time being. That, too, the old man made me swear. The children are safer for the moment with their identity concealed, obviously. But when the time comes--remember, brothers. There were two sons, produced by the same mother."