This Rough Magic

Di Scala laughed sardonically. 'And how you came by the loot was, of course.'

Benito hunched his shoulders still more. 'It was my grandmother's.'

'Yes. Very likely. Now get lost.'

'I won't bring you any more stuff.'

'I will sob myself to sleep tonight,' sniffed Di Scala. 'You aren't from round here anyway. That's enough money for you to waste on wine and whores. You're lucky I don't let the boys just drop you over the wharf with a couple of weights on your feet—and if you don't get out of here, that's just what I will do. Get.'

Benito got. 'There's no need to push,' he snarled at the thugs on the rickety stair. He was rewarded by a buffet and them grabbing his pouch. They took the florin reposed there, kicked him out to sprawl in an alley, and threw his empty pouch after him. The alley was narrow, slippery and reeking with ordure. He got up and staggered away, theatrically waving a fist at the laughing pair.

They'd have laughed less if they'd seen him round the corner and then grease up a drainage pipe. Before they were back inside, Benito was lying in the shelter of a chimney pot just behind the shady lip of an eave of a house beyond.

Watching. Without money he wasn't going anywhere anyway. He'd allowed himself to get careless. Rusty. Overconfident. He still had one jewel, but if he sold it anywhere in this town news was bound to get out, and they'd be looking for him.

Besides, he'd discovered that he had an extreme dislike of being robbed. It occurred to him, with somewhat wry amusement, that some of his own victims over the years might have felt just as angry. There was a kind of justice in it, he supposed, but he needed money to get to Venice. Corfu needed help. Maria needed that help. So did that kid of hers.

He waited and watched. A fence's busiest hours would be toward early morning—this rogue wasn't going anywhere. As the night wore on, he'd just get more careful.

Benito had no money and nothing else to do, after all. He steeled himself—as he'd done often enough above the canals of Venice, in years past—to ignore hunger, cold and tiredness. At least this time, hunger wasn't part of the equation; that excellent meal was still enough with him that his stomach was happy, but not so much as to slow him down.

Eventually, Di Scala and his two thugs appeared on the street. Moving surely and silently across the roofs, Benito trailed the fence back to Di Scala's own house. That was where the fence would keep his stash, he was sure.

The two thugs followed Di Scala into the house; then, a few minutes later, they emerged and headed off to wherever they slept themselves. As soon as they were gone, Benito came out of hiding and swung into position. Hanging like a bat from the eaves, he watched the fence through a shutter-crack in his bedroom. The man unlocked his cassone, opened up a cunningly disguised compartment in its lid and secreted some coin into it, and an item of what was probably jewelry.

Smiling to himself, Benito found a rooftop corner, rolled himself into a ball and slept. By midday he was back at his post. He watched the fence leave. As soon as darkness provided cover, Benito began slipping tiles from the roof, as quietly as possible. Then, he eased planks from the ceiling with the Shetland knife. It was proving a good, strong tool. Not exactly a Ferrara main gauche, but a workingman's ideal knife.

Lightly, Benito dropped into the fence's bedroom. He made no attempt to force the lock on the cassone—it would be a good one. Besides, the hidden compartment probably had a booby trap. Instead he set to work with the knife on the board making up the back edge, being careful not to move the cassone itself. That might have unpleasant consequences. There'd been a case like that back in Venice. The thief had lost his hands, his sight, and, because he was caught in the screaming aftermath, his life.

Benito was not planning to chance imitating him. He cut a neat slot through the solid wood, and then tipped the cassone. It wasn't the most effective way of getting money out, but Benito was rewarded by a succession of coins and bits and pieces. He put them all hastily into his pouch, before leaving the way he'd come. As neat a job as he'd ever done, and as well-deserved a one as he'd ever pulled, thought Benito, quietly slipping out onto the roof.

But, as Valentina had taught him—in what seemed a lifetime away—the job wasn't done until you were clean away. Benito had done his homework. Two boats carrying fresh produce for the market in Messina left long before first light from Reggio di Calabria to have the crisp wares unloaded and in the market by dawn. This morning they took an uninvited fresh thief as well as their fresh vegetables. He had the grace to get off quietly on the Messina quay-side, carry a load of carrots to the waiting wagon, and even to steal only one carrot.

It was fairly woody, but, munching at the purple root as he went in search of a taverna, Benito found it remarkably pleasant. Sweet and tasty, even. His nose led him to a panetteria where stevedores were already buying hot ciabatta, before going on to a stall where a butcher was selling liver and tripe ragout from a steaming pot, at a copper a dip of the loaf. Benito felt in his pouch. He hadn't really investigated what his loot was yet.

What his fingers encountered was round—but not money. He stepped into a noisome alley to check it out.

He had to laugh. What he'd assumed was money was valuable all right. It just wasn't currency or saleable, except by priests. He had acquired some fifteen golden Hypatian medals. Four pilgrim medals, also golden, struck in Jerusalem, engraved with the pilgrim's name, some twenty-three pieces of silver of some foreign origin—a coin he'd never seen before—and . . . a ruby.

His ruby. Well, there was some justice in the world.

 

Chapter 53

Despite his hunger and tiredness, Benito set off in search of a Hypatian chapel. He would just drop the medals in the poor box or leave them in the font or something.

He found the chapel all right. This time luck wasn't with him. He slipped in quietly, only to have a Sibling emerge from the counseling booth as he approached the font.

'Can I help you, my son?' she asked gently. 'Are you in need of counseling?