By this time, Marco felt faint with hunger, and on his way back to shelter spotted a lone marsh-mallow just at the edge of what he knew to be dangerous mire. He took a chance, and worked his way out to it--but he had to stop just out of reach, when the hungry mud beneath the water sucked at his foot and nearly pulled him down. He stared at it in despair. He hadn't eaten in two days now. . . .
There was no way to reach it.
Choking on tears of frustration, he turned his back on the tantalizing plant, and headed for the hide again.
He crawled inside, too cold to shiver, wrapped a scrap of blanket around himself, and waited for the sun to warm the hide a little. There was just enough room under the lumpy dome for him and a few precious belongings. Sunlight filtered through the mass of enmeshed weeds at the entrance as he got feeling back into his toes and feet. Finally, for lack of anything else to do, he picked through his packets of herbs and oddments to see if he might have left a scrap of food in there.
Nothing. Except a single fishhook and a bit of line, left from the times he had something to bait the hook with.
He paused, with his hand over the packet.
It wouldn't be much of a sin. Maybe not any sin. Even in Milan--
Even in Pauline-dominated Milan, fishermen got blessings on their nets to increase their catch.
But he wasn't a priest, to give such a blessing.
On the other hand, if he passed out from hunger, he wouldn't be able to warn Benito.
Saint Peter--you were a fisherman! Blessed Saint Peter, send me a sign!
There was an angry squawk and a commotion just outside and above his hide--a thump, a splash--
He shoved his head and arm outside, just in time to wave frantically at the gull about to recapture its dinner from the water at his door--lost in a fight with the other two gulls circling overhead. He snatched the hand-sized gray mullet out of the water and withdrew back into his protection as the gull stabbed at him with its beak.
Thank you, Saint Peter!
He took his knife and worried slivers of flesh from the bony fish, eating them raw, and thankful that once again he had been saved from committing a sin.
* * *
He spent a terrible, anxious, miserable day in the hide, not even prepared to go and share his fear with Chiano and Sophia. With the dusk he was off to wait again.
* * *
This time he was rewarded. There was a pad of bare feet overhead--then tiny sounds that marked someone who knew what he was doing and where he was going, climbing down among the crossbeams.
"Hi, brother?" Benito's whisper.
"Right here."
"Be right with you." A bit of scratching, a rasp of wood on cloth and skin, and someone slipped in beside him with a quick hug, and then pulled away.
"Riot out there tonight. Sorry about yesterday. I couldn't get here in time. I tried but I got held up."
"Benito--I've got to go under cover again. One of Them nearly got me yesterday. Assassin. He was waiting for me, Benito. He knew who I was and where I was going. It has to be Them."
Swift intake of breath. "God--no! Not after all this time! How'd you get away?"
"I just--outran him." Don't let him know what really happened. He'll think he has to share the danger. Marco had been careful never to let his brother even guess that he'd had to kill--and more than once.
"All right." The voice in the dark took on a new firmness. "That's it. You're not gonna run any more, big brother. Running don't cut it. You need a protector, somebody with weight."
"Get serious!" Marco answered bitterly. "Where am I going to find somebody willing to stand up for me?"
Benito chuckled. "Been thinking about that. New man in town--got contacts, got weight--everywhere, seems like. Been watching him."
"Big fat deal--what reason is he going to have to help me?"
"Name's Aldanto. Caesare Aldanto. Familiar?"
Marco sucked in his breath. "Lord and Saints . . ."
"Thought I 'membered," Benito replied with satisfaction.
Marco did indeed remember that name--it went all the way back to their being exiled to Venice, an exile that Grandfather Dell'este thought would take them out of the reach of Mama's pro-Milanese friends and of her lover. Caesare Aldanto had been one of the Milanese agents in Ferrara--a friend of Mama's lover Carlo Sforza. Carlo was (presumably) Benito's father--that was probably why the name 'Aldanto' had stuck so fortuitously in Benito's memory.
"You can never forget anything, brother. What's the Aldanto you saw look like?"
Marco closed his eyes and rocked back and forth a little, letting his mind drift back--Lord and Saints, he'd been a seven, maybe, eight-year-old boy--
"Blond. Pretty guy. Moved like a cat, or a dancer. Blue eyes--tall, dressed really well."
"Dunno about the eyes, but the rest is him. It's the same man. Appears to me he'd have reason to help us. Appears to me you'd want to get Mama's message to him, no?"
"Lord--" Marco said, not quite believing this turn of events. "It's--"
"Like that story you used to tell me? Yeah, well, maybe. I'm more interested in seeing you safe, and I think this Caesare Aldanto can do that. Right then, we'll go find him. Now. Tonight."
Marco started to scramble up, but Benito forestalled him. "No way you're going to pass in the town, brother. Not dressed like that."
"Oh. Yes."
"You wait here--I won't be long."
* * *
Benito thought he'd managed that rather cleverly; he thought he'd remembered Caesare Aldanto's name when he'd first heard it, and he had just been biding his time, waiting for the opportunity to get Marco to take the bait he was going to offer. The marshes were no place for Marco--sooner or later someone or something would get him. Venice was safer, by far. Besides, since he'd been thrown out from Theodoro's family, Benito had been getting lonelier and lonelier. He had friends--Lola, for instance. Well, she was sort of a friend. Mercutio, he was fun, and he looked out for Benito. But it wasn't the same as having Marco around. He wanted his big brother back!
Well, now--first things first; a set of clothing that wouldn't stand out in the Solstice crowds. Benito took to the rooftops and thought while he climbed. Nearest secondhand clothing store was close to the Palazzo Mastelli. That was the area he was hanging out in at present--no go. Off limits. He could hear Valentina now, cracking him over the ear for even thinking about it. "Never soil your own nest, boy. Rule one."
The air up here was fresher, the breeze carrying away a lot of the stink. Benito slipped around chimneypots and skylights as easily as if he'd been on a level walkway. So: the next closest was over toward the Ca' d'Oro. Old man Mirko was a stingy bastardo, too cheap to put good shutters in his windows. And the Dalmatian wouldn't miss the loss. Mirko's place it was.
He crossed the bridges on the support beams below, keeping a sharp eye out for watchers, finally getting himself up on the supports of the high-level bridge that crossed the Rio Malpaga. Mirko had a second-story window just below and to one side of it. Benito unwound the light rope and grapnel from his waist, spied a sturdy cornice, and made his cast.