"It just doesn't make sense," added Diego, shaking his head.
"No, it doesn't," mused Eneko. "Which is precisely what interests me the most. Why is such a boy working for such a man? Or--perhaps more important--why has such a man taken such a boy under his wing?" He cocked his head at his two companions. "Aldanto is indeed, as Pierre said, 'a pure mercenary.' So what is his mercenary reason in this instance?"
His two companions looked at each other. Pierre shrugged; Diego sighed. "I suppose this means you want me to investigate something else."
Eneko chuckled. "I don't think it will be as bad as all that, Diego. If the boy is a healer--" Eneko pointed across the canal at the Cannaregio district. "You've met Father Mascoli. I introduced you to him just a few weeks ago. Ask him first. If the boy is as well known in this area as all that, as a lay doctor, Mascoli will know who he is."
"The Cannaregio," muttered the Castillian. "The Ghetto's reputation is bad, but overrated. There are other places in Cannaregio whose reputation is . . . not."
"I'll protect you," said Pierre stoutly. "From sin, of course. Footpads--you're on your own."
Eneko clucked. "The only danger you'll face in the Cannaregio is from cutpurses. And since neither of you has a purse . . ."
He ignored the glares coming his way. Insouciantly: "Righteousness, brothers. Always the best armor."
Chapter 32 ==========
Marco made good time across to Dorsoduro; he'd have at least an hour with Rafael before he had to head back. He was glad to get there; the overcast had given birth to flurries of cold rain, and his nose felt numb.
If Rafael was there--
The Al Caraveillo tavern was the likeliest spot to find him; Marco poked his head in the door and got hit in the face with the light and the noise. It was almost as bad as a physical blow after the chill gray of the canalside. It took him a moment to adjust to it.
But when he finally did, he breathed a prayer of thanks to the Saints--for at a table in the rear, book propped up in front of him and huge orange cat spread out like a rug on his lap, was a tall, thin dark-haired young man wearing an Accademia cotte.
* * *
"--so that's the whole mess," Marco concluded miserably. He slumped on his hard wooden chair, staring at his own clenched hands, surrounded by the clutter of artwork, books, and other paraphernalia of a student and artist's life that filled the tiny room that made up Rafael's lodgings. The lanky student across from him lounged on his unmade bed, chewing his lip thoughtfully.
Marco had laid out the whole story--saving only Aldanto's exact identity and what he was involved with. Rafael de Tomaso had simply been told that Aldanto was a man with enemies--a lot of enemies. That was enough for Rafael to add into his calculations, without his knowing enough for the information to be a danger to Caesare. At least de Tomaso hadn't laughed at him.
"You've got yourself a problem, all right," Rafael said finally, putting his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling. "A bad one. The Dormas are rising in influence; rising fast, from what I hear. I'm almost certain that Petro Dorma is in the Council of Ten already. From the little I know, Angelina Dorma would be a very bad enemy for your friend to have. And if you go through with this charade, she'll find out eventually. When she does she will want his hide as much as yours. Her older brother Petro's a calm one, sure. Still, it is a family thing--and, like I said, Council of Ten. A Lord of the Nightwatch, for sure."
"I figured," Marco replied dismally.
"You weren't planning on trying to carry it off, were you?'
"For about five minutes, maybe," Marco admitted. "After that--dammit, Rafael, it isn't right, that's all I can say. It isn't fair, even if I could make it work."
Rafael de Tomaso smiled; a kindly smile, as if he were giving Marco credit for honesty. "How much of your hide are you willing to part with?"
The lump rose in Marco's throat, nearly choking his words. "All of it," he said at last. "She's going to hate me forever, no matter what happens. If there's a way to keep my friend out of it, I'll take it and take my lumps."
"You got some place you could go to get out of sight for a couple of weeks? Long enough to let things cool down?"
Marco thought, as best he could. Not Aldanto's place. Not the apartment in Cannaregio that he and Benito had shared; that would be the first place a searcher would look. Claudia and Valentina?
They'd take him in--no doubt of it. But Claudia was a Strega and a thief on top of that--Benito had confirmed that, all of it. The two singers had been Benito's protectors and mentors in his early days on his own, Claudia more than Valentina, but he knew most of what there was to know about both of them. Claudia had been "courting" Marco ever since she'd found out he wanted to be a doctor, dangling a secret Strega-run healer school in front of him. He was mightily afraid that his resolution not to get involved with any more religious or factional fanatics would crumble under the slightest pressure at this point. It would be such a logical move; cut ties to Caesare, get under the protection of somebody else, drop out of sight--and get his dream into the bargain.
So easy . . .
No! He wouldn't even think about it. "Easy" usually had strings attached that wouldn't show up until later. And what if the Strega used him to get at Caesare or Benito--or Maria and her boatmen friends?
The Jesolo marshes? Back into the muddy velme and hide in barene?
He gave that one a second thought and then a third. Maybe not such a bad notion. He could move a hide into old Gianni's territory, it might still be open with Gianni dead by Marco's knife. Even if it wasn't, no marsh-locos would fool with the man who'd killed Gianni. They'd leave him alone, maybe clear out altogether themselves. There were a fair number of food plants there, and some good fishing spots. It was cold, sure; but he could take blankets and medicine out with him. He could tough it out for two weeks or so. Maybe getting back to the basics of surviving would clear out his head.
"I think maybe I got a place," he answered Rafael slowly. "Why?"
"I think if I were you, this is what I'd do--and first thing is, you aren't going tell anybody anything; you're going to write to them--"
* * *
It was almost dawn. Benito was so dead asleep he didn't even stir when Marco slipped out of bed. Marco hadn't slept more than a few minutes all night, lying there in the bed with every muscle so tight with nerves that they were ready to cramp. He dressed quickly in the dark, putting on every bit of clothing he possessed here; not daring to light a lamp lest he wake Benito. His pack was back in the Cannaregio apartment, already made up with the clothing he'd left there and the blankets from that bed.
There were other things there, too; things he'd bought--a spare knife, a tinderbox, fishhooks and line, and lures. He'd been afraid to bring the pack here, lest somebody catch him at it and try to stop him.