Now they fronted a man Aldanto called by name, and that man was coldly angry. "You have a lot of balls, coming here, Caesare," the man spat. "And for calling me away from my guests on a night of the Feast--"
"Granted," Aldanto said coldly. "However, I think you happen to take your honor and your pledged word fairly seriously, and I have just learned that you happen to have an unpaid debt and a broken promise you might want to discharge. These boys are Valdosta. Marco and Benito Valdosta."
Marco had rarely seen words act so powerfully on someone. The man's anger faded into guilt.
"I've brought them here," Aldanto continued deliberately, "so that we can even some scales. You made a promise to Duke Dell'este, and didn't keep it. I--lost you some people. Both these kids are useful."
Now the man looked skeptical, as if he doubted Aldanto's ability to judge much of anything.
"Milord," Benito piped up, "you've used me, I know. Ask your people. I'm a messenger--a good one. I don't take bribes, I'm fast--"
"You could take him on as a staff runner and train him for bargework as he grows into it. And the older boy clerks," Aldanto continued.
"You don't expect me to take that on faith!"
Marco took a deep breath and interrupted. "Set me a problem, milord. Nothing easy. You'll see."
The man sniffed derisively, then rattled off something fast; a complicated calculation involving glass bottles--cost, expected breakage, transportation and storage, ending with the question of how much to ask for each in order to receive a twenty-percent profit margin.
Marco closed his eyes, went into his calculating-trance, and presented the answer quickly enough to leave the man with a look of surprise on his face.
"Well!" said the man. "For once . . . I don't suppose he can write, too?"
Aldanto had a funny little smile. "Give him something to write with." He seemed to be enjoying the man's discomfiture.
Marco was presented with a quill pen and an old bill of lading. He appropriated a ledger to press on, and promptly copied the front onto the back, and in a much neater hand.
"You win," the man said with resignation. "Why don't you tell me exactly what's been going on--and how you managed to resurrect these two?"
Aldanto just smiled.
The man took Aldanto off somewhere, returning after a bit with a troubled look and a bundle, which he handed to Benito.
"You, boy--I want you here at opening time sharp, and in this uniform. And you're not Valdosta anymore, forget that name. You're Oro; you're close enough to the look of that family. Got that?"
Benito took the bundle soberly. "Yes. Milord."
"As for you--" Marco tried not to sway with fatigue, but the man saw it anyway, "--you're out on your feet. No good to anyone until you get some rest. Besides, two new kids in one day--hard to explain. You get fed and clean, real clean. We've got a reputation to maintain. And get that hair taken care of. I want you here in two days. 'Oro' is no good for you. Make it--uh--Felluci. I don't suppose you'd rather be sent back to your family?"
"No, milord," Marco replied adamantly. "I won't put danger on them. Bad enough that it's on me."
The man shook his head. "Saints preserve--you're a fool, boy, but a brave one. Dell'este honor, is it? Well, Dell'este can usually deal with most things, too. Anyway . . . Right enough--now get out of here. Before I remember that I'm not a fool. Ventuccio honor's real enough, but it isn't that hammered steel version the Old Fox insists on."
Aldanto escorted them to the door, stopping them just inside it.
"This wasn't free--" he told Marco quietly.
"Milord. I know that, milord."
"Just so we both know, I'm going to be calling in this debt--calling in all those things you promised me. I may call it in so often that you'd wish you'd never thought of coming to me."
"Milord Aldanto," Marco replied, looking him full in the eyes, "I owe you. And I can't ever pay it all."
"Well . . ." Aldanto seemed slightly embarrassed. "They say the one who wins is the one who is left standing, so by all counts you came out of this a winner. Be grateful--and remember to keep your mouth shut."
Marco figured that that was the best advice he'd had in a long time.
* * *
Benito hauled Marco back to Valentina and Claudia before taking him "home." The Marco that came from their hands was much shorter of hair by a foot or two; and a bit darker of complexion--not to mention a lot cleaner and with a good hot breakfast in his stomach. It wasn't quite dawn when he and his brother climbed up to the garret where Benito had made his home. Benito gave him a pair of blankets to roll up in, and he was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted before Benito had gotten into his store clothes. Benito smiled to himself, a smile warm and content with the world, and set to one last task before heading back to Ventuccio.
He pried up a particular board in the attic, felt around until he located the little bag he had hung there, and pulled it out. Caesare's woman Maria Garavelli was bound to hear of this--and he reckoned he'd better have a peace offering. And there was that scarf he'd taken off that duelist to prove to Claudia that he was able.
* * *
After the Ventuccio let him go for the day, he waited under the Ponto di Rialto knowing she'd be by. When he spotted her, he swung down to hang from the support by his knees.
He whistled. She looked up.
"Maria--" he called. "Peace, huh? Truce? Okay? Here's something for sorrys." He'd knotted a pebble into one corner of the scarf--and it was a nice one; silk, bright red. He dropped it neatly at her feet, and scrambled back up before she could get over her surprise. With Maria Garavelli it was a good idea to get out of the line-of-sight and find out about reactions later.
Besides--he warmed to the thought--he had to get back home. His family was waiting. And once they'd eaten there was a bit of swimming he'd promised to do for that smuggler-girl.
Chapter 6 =========
What was that about? wondered Maria. She stared after Benito's rapidly receding form, pausing for a moment in her rowing of the gondola.
"Peace?" "Truce?" I didn't know there was a fight between me and Benito in the first place. If there is . . . we'll see whether there's a truce or not!
Maria Garavelli looked at the bright rectangle of silk lying on her duckboards and bent down and rescued the precious scrap before it got wet. It was the expensive color that dyers called golden flame or oriflamme. It was just the color of the evening sun-trail on the water of the lagoon. She shook her head clear of these impractical thoughts. Honestly! Sometimes she behaved as she was some Case Vecchie lady, instead of a canal-girl.
That bridge-brat Benito . . . He hung about with young Mercutio Laivetti. Mercutio was Trouble if she'd ever met trouble, and you didn't get to be sixteen as an orphaned girl on the canals of Venice without being good at spotting it. She'd fended for herself for three years since Mama died, leaving her nothing but the gondola. Cousin Antonio had offered to let her move in with them, but heaven knew there were enough mouths to feed there. Saint Hypatia! And his wife was the worst shrew and gossip in all Venice. Maria pulled a wry face and tucked the silk scarf into the top of her blouse. She went back to sculling.