But Caesare was a skillful interrogator; Benito couldn't resist the steady barrage of quiet questions, not when Aldanto was between him and the door. Syllable by tortured syllable, the handsome blond dragged the night's escapade out of him, as Benito stared at the floor, smoldering sullenly, determined not to break down a second time. He got to know every crack and cranny of the entryway floor before it was over.
Silence. Then, "I'm sorry," Aldanto said quietly. "I'm sorry about your friend."
Benito looked up. Aldanto's face was unreadable, but his eyes were murky with thought, memory, something. He looked past Benito for a moment.
"But you know very well," he said, noncommittally, "that was a damned fool stunt."
Benito snarled and made a dash for the stairs. Aldanto made no move to stop him. He tore up the stairs, stubbing his toes twice, getting up and resuming his run--got to Caesare's bedroom and through it, not caring if Maria was in the bed--to the roof-trap and out, slamming it behind him--
And out onto the roof, into the dark, the night, the sheltering night, where he huddled beside the chimney and cried and cried and cried. . . .
* * *
Dawn brought the return of sense, the return of thought.
Valentina was right, he thought bleakly. She told me and told me. Must have been a million times. She told me Mercutio was a fool. She told me he wouldn't see twenty. She was right. Him and his ideas--"gonna be rich and famous." So what's he come to? Blown away 'cause some ol' fool thinks he's Jewel. And ain't nobody going to remember him but me.
He crouched on his haunches, both arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth and shivering a little. Ain't nobody going to remember him but me. Could have been me. Could have been. Been coasting on my luck, just like Mercutio. Only one day the luck runs out . . .
He stared off across the roofs, to the steeples and turrets of the Accademia. Marco maybe got it right.
He sniffed, and rubbed his cold, tender nose on his sleeve. What have I done? What the hell good am I doing for him, or even for Caesare? The Dell'este has gone and made an heir to the house. And Marco . . . poor fish, doesn't even begin to know how to be sneaky. Just honest--and honest could wind up with him just as dead as Mama. There's gotta be somethin' I can do. There's got to be . . .
His thoughts went around and around like that for some time until he heard voices below, and saw Maria shutting the door beneath his perch, saw her hop into her gondola and row it away into a shiny patch of sun and past, into the shadows on the canal.
He knew Aldanto would be up.
He unwound himself and crept on hands and knees to the trapdoor; lifted it, and let himself down into the apartment.
"I wondered if you'd gone," said a voice behind him as he dropped.
He turned. Aldanto sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, eyes half-closed, but not at all sleepy, fishy-smelling breeze coming in the open window and ruffling his hair.
"No, Caesare," Benito replied uncertainly. "I've--been thinking."
He could feel Aldanto considering him from under those half-closed lids; weighing him.
"You've been thinking?"
"I'm a fool. Lucky, but--Mercutio was lucky for a while."
"And you saw what riding luck got him."
"Si."
"And what do you propose to do about this revelation?"
Benito couldn't stand looking at that expressionless face. He dropped his eyes to his own feet; bare, callused, dirty, and covered with little scratches. "Don't know, Caesare," he muttered. "Just--you need help, m'brother needs help--and I don't how--what to do. I just--want do it smart, that's all. I want to be able t' do things. An' if somebody decides to put a hole in me--"
He looked up again, his chin firming stubbornly, a kind of smoldering anger in the bottom of his stomach.
"--if somebody decides to put a hole in me, I don't want it to be for no damn reason!"
Aldanto licked his lips a trifle, his eyes no longer hooded. "You're asking my advice."
"Si," Benito said. "I'm asking. And I'll take it. I ain't going to be a fool any more."
"Dorma," Aldanto replied.
Benito wrinkled his nose doubtfully. "Milord? What's Dorma got to do--"
"Petro Dorma has been made aware of the fact that there are two Valdosta boys in Venice. It is only because of my effort and Marco's that he hasn't had his people out to bring you in regardless of your wishes in the matter." Was that a hint of smile? If so, it was gone before Benito had a chance to identify the expression. "We persuaded him that until you wanted the shelter of Dorma's patronage, it would be--a less than successful venture. He continues to inquire about you. He has a very strong sense of obligation--" It was a hint of a smile. "--has Milord Dorma. He's a powerful, influential man. Keeps quiet, but has a following. I wouldn't mind knowing what happens at Dorma. You have eyes that see things that your brother doesn't."
"But--Marco, he wants to be a doctor," Benito felt moved to protest. "I ain't smart, not that smart--what am I supposed to do?"
"What did your grandfather tell you to do? I know he sent you a note not long ago."
Benito remembered, as clearly as if he had Marco's perfect memory, the words of his granther's note. It is your duty to take care of Marco. He has no talent for lying, no ability to deceive. This is not altogether bad, as there should be one in every generation who understands and believes in Dell'este Honor. But those who believe in the Honor need those who understand the price of Honor to care for them.
"He told me to take care of Marco."
"Why you?" said Aldanto quietly.
"Because I'm not good--and the good ones need bad ones to watch out for 'em." That may not have been what the duke had said, but it was what he meant.
"Ferrara is being squeezed. The Dell'este have not a sure ally in the world. The old Duke is a canny old fox. But Marco could become the Head of the Dell'este in exile." Aldanto spoke intently, his blue eyes boring into Benito's. "What then?"
Benito thought about the duke; the clever, canny duke, who understood expediency--and Marco, who did not--and shivered.
Aldanto leaned back on his pillows a little. "So. You see."
Benito nodded, slowly.
"Then, young milord, I advise you to go to Petro Dorma. And I advise you to ask him to train you in the ways of business. And I further advise you to learn, Benito Valdosta. Apply yourself as devotedly as you did to learning to pick a lock."
"Si," Benito said, in a small humble voice. He turned, and started to go--then turned back for a moment. "Caesare--"
Aldanto simply raised one golden eyebrow.
"We're still in your debt. You call it in, any time--I pay it. Roofwalking too."
"I'll hold you to that," said Caesare, bleakly.
Benito nodded. And he picked his way carefully down the staircase, and out the door, into the dawn sunshine.
* * *
He sat on the doorstep of Dorma for a very long time before the doorkeeper opened the outer protective grate for the day. The doorkeeper was a withered old man who stared at him with a pride far more in keeping with a House Head than that of a doorkeeper.