Guiseppe went to get Lorenzo, he who had been their gondolier the night that Kat had smuggled Maria home. Maria found herself once again being hastily dressed from Kat's wardrobe. "Ladies" were much less likely to be interfered with, and tonight there were certain to be a fair number of drunken roisterers about. The floor-length dress, bulked with petticoats, wasn't going to show her feet. Ten minutes later they were headed for Marco at Casa Dorma.
* * *
Marco was packing up his books and medical gear rather more slowly than was strictly necessary. It seemed to him that Rafael was lingering similarly over his brushes and paints. Both of them were destined to join their Volunteer units in the morning. Both were headed for Fruili and would face some weeks of drilling and training before being flung into combat. Marco wanted to get back to see Benito before the boy went off with the galleys headed for Polestine. On the other hand, he didn't want to leave this apartment. It represented fulfillment of one of his dreams.
He sighed. He'd have left it on the instant to see Kat. But the head of Casa Montescue had made it absolutely clear. Never again. Petro Dorma had said the same, if less directly.
* * *
Petro Dorma was facing Katerina Montescue at that moment. He had in fact been about to step out when he had overheard the doorman saying: "No, Milady Montescue. Milord Marco Valdosta is not at home. Neither is Milord Benito."
"We'll see Petro Dorma then," said a young woman, decisively.
"Milord Petro is not available, signorinas."
Better to deal with it, he decided. Montescue was only one vote, but once that Casa had been a real bastion against the Montagnards. The daughter of the house was plainly still besotted with Marco. The old man could become an enemy if this was handled wrongly. And even one vote in the Grand Council could be of huge value.
He stepped out. "I'll see them, Paolo. Escort them to the Blue Salon."
"We just need to find Marco . . ." said the other woman, nervously, in far from refined tones. She sounded like a canaler.
Petro turned his back. "I'll speak to you in the Blue Salon."
* * *
Kat thought it was a terrible shade of blue. She wanted, desperately, to see Marco again. Even if she couldn't have him. She was also afraid that she might see Angelina Dorma. Her hands crooked into claws at the thought. She might not be able to restrain herself.
But only Petro was there. "You must understand," he said gently, "that I cannot allow you to see Marco. Your grandfather would not permit it."
Kat handed him the letter that Lodovico had written. "It's addressed to Marco, but my grandfather said we could show it to you, if need be."
Petro took the letter doubtfully. It carried the Montescue seal. He cracked it open and read the brief, polite letter Lodovico had scrawled.
"Well." He bit his lip. "This puts something of a different complexion on the matter, but . . ."
"I'm not going to run off with him," snapped Kat. Even though I would like to. "My grandfather has discovered that he was entirely mistaken about the Valdosta involvement in our House's loss. He wants to apologize to the Casa Valdosta."
Her voice quavered slightly. "He is an old man and he, and they, may not live through this war. And we have someone who is injured we would like Marco to see. That's all. Word of a Montescue."
Petro nodded. "He's over at his apartment near the Accademia, packing up. He should be back soon, if you'd care to wait."
The other woman stood up, giving Petro a glimpse of her bare feet. The unexpected sight--the dress was very fine--startled him.
"We'll get him there," she said. "Come, Kat. I know where it is. You--Dorma--tell Benito that Maria says he's to come to the Casa Montescue. And don't you tell that stinking Caesare Aldanto."
Petro was plainly unused to being addressed like this. But he'd picked up on the name. "Maria?"
Maria nodded defiantly. "Yep. That's me. Come, Kat. We'd better move, or that woman'll likely die on us. I should have thought to stop at the Accademia on the way over."
* * *
Marco took a last look around. "Time for leaving." He started to pick up his bags. There were more of them than could be easily carried. Dorma could send someone over for the bulk of them in the morning, he decided.
Rafael nodded. "I'll walk with you as far as the Traghetto."
Laden with the things that he felt he couldn't leave behind--his books and instruments--Marco walked in awkward silence down the stairs and out into the narrow calle. The first inkling he had of trouble was the boom of an arquebus, followed immediately by what felt like a bull hammering into his chest. The sheer force of it winded him, knocking him down. It sprayed the precious books it had struck into the street.
"Finish him!" yelled someone. "Make sure he's dead!" A group of dark-clad figures stood up from the cover where they'd been lurking in wait.
"Help!" yelled Rafael. "A rescue!"
And to Marco's amazement a rescue came, running down the darkened street.
"A Mercurio! Lux ferre!"
That was Luciano's voice! The entire street danced with witch-fire, showing the mottled, scarred face of Harrow and several others with him, the weird light gleaming on brass-bound staves. The five waiting assassins were trapped in the cul-de-sac. Swords and knives were drawn to meet the challenge.
One of them ignored the fight and came on at Marco, who was struggling--with Rafael's help--to get to his feet. It was Francesco Aleri, rapier in hand.
Marco stared at his death.
"Aleri!" yelled someone. "I've come to get you."
Somehow that voice halted Marco's nemesis. "Bespi?" he asked incredulously.
"Yeah, Aleri! Me." Harrow had thrust his way through the melee. "I've come to kill you."
Marco had never seen the big Milanese "Trade Ambassador-at-Large" look anything less than utterly confident. A few moments ago, even when the ambush had turned into a fight in which his side was outnumbered, Aleri's face had still worn that look. Now he just looked frightened. "You're dead!"
Harrow moved forward, a knife in either hand. "No thanks to you that I'm not. I'll have revenge now, Aleri. You're a dead man." He feinted.
Aleri had a rapier. He was, you could tell by the way he held it, skilled in its use. Harrow only had two knives. Yet Aleri was backing off--and plainly badly scared. "It was an accident," he protested.
"This isn't going to be," Harrow snarled, staring at the Milanese with mad, unblinking eyes.
Aleri made a frantic grab for Marco, while holding Harrow off with a sword.
It was a mistake. Harrow was far too good a bladesman, even with knives against a sword, for Aleri not to concentrate on him completely. The Montagnard assassin managed to stab Harrow through the belly with the rapier. Then . . .
Harrow's knives worked like a machine. Blood spouted everywhere, coating both men. The two sprawled to the ground. Aleri, still barely alive, stared at the sky; Harrow groaned once, tried to pull out the sword, and then lapsed into unconsciousness.