This Rough Magic

HELP! And you and I know that you also bought golden medallions STOLEN FROM THE CHURCH! Stolen from the Hypatian Siblings who would have used the money raised to care for the poor, to do Christ's work! See what sort of ILL-FORTUNE follows SUCH WICKEDNESS!'

Not bad, he though. Benito flicked his rapier forward, cutting the fence's pouch free. He stabbed it as it fell. And then, using thumb and forefinger from his rapier hand, he held it, ripped it open, and showered coin into the dark water.

'My money!' squalled the fence.

Benito clucked his tongue. 'Sinner. Some things are worth much more than money.'

With that, he applied his foot to the skinny fence's little pot-belly, sending him over the stern-rail. The thug didn't wait. He jumped.

Benito watched them flounder to the shore. No one came out of the darkness to help them scramble, dripping, up the rocks of the quay. No one followed them as they left.

Benito looked out at the quay for a while. Then he sheathed his sword and the Shetland knife. 'All right,' he said, 'you can come out now.'

Shamefacedly, the seven-man crew came out from behind the stacked cargo where they'd been hiding, led by their captain. Benito noticed another couple of people sneaking away. It would be all over the tavernas by morning, thought Benito, knowing how these things worked.

So much for keeping his passage quiet. Still, with any luck he hadn't betrayed who he was or where he was from—or even where he was headed.

'Well, how much did he pay you?' Benito said grimly to the captain. 'I should have smelled a rat. It was too easy. You weren't planning on going to Livorno, were you?'

The captain shook his head. 'We only go to Naples, signor. Never been further. But word was out to agree to take you wherever you wanted to go.'

Benito smiled wryly. 'I'm getting old and getting soft. Well, Captain. Just how soon do we sail? Because these parts are going to be very unhealthy for a while. You might be wanted for questioning, about why you allowed a man with the Church's blessing on him to be attacked on your ship.'

The captain looked about nervously. 'We're not supposed to sail at night.'

Benito just looked at him. Then looked at the water. You couldn't actually see a corpse there.

'However there's a good breeze,' said the captain hastily. 'Stilo. Cast us off, boy!'

'But, Captain . . .'

'Don't argue, Stilo.'

The seaman did as he was told. When he jumped back on board he asked Benito: 'Is it true about the medals?'

Benito nodded. 'The Siblings were going over this afternoon to fetch home the rest.'

The seaman took a deep breath. 'Di Scala is a big man, and he's got connections. But this time he's gone too far. You don't mess around with the Hypatians here. The people, especially the women, won't stand for it. He'd know that, if he could get a woman without paying double for her.' Then he snickered. 'Actually, after this, he couldn't get the worst puttana in town for the price of a prince's courtesan.'

Benito pulled a face. 'Besides, no matter how big a man you are . . . someone else is always bigger. There were some Jerusalem pilgrim medals, too. One of them belonged to a fellow with a reputation big enough to make even princes nervous. And when he finds out . . .'

He sighed. Having Carlo Sforza for a father had been the kind of thing that had made a boy wonder about himself, sometimes. He was finding that to be just as true, now that he was a young man.

'I think, Captain, you'd be very wise to stay away a long time. At least as long as the trip to Livorno is going to take you.'

 

Chapter 55

Aldo Morando approached the secondhand merchant Fianelli with a smile. 'I believe I've got some information that might be of interest to you.'

'I deal in old clothing and cheap medicines,' said Fianelli, disinterestedly. 'Not information.'

Morando wasn't fooled. Fianelli didn't want it known that he was the kingpin. His underlings did the legwork, bought and brought in the information, delivered it to the drop point, and collected their money from the same. But Fianelli was less professional than he thought he was. Morando had been a spy for Phillipo Maria once, in Milan. Now there was a son of a bitch who really understood underhand dealing. Fianelli was a provincial amateur by comparison.

Aldo Morando knew how the money worked, too. A lake at the top; a stream to the next tier; and drops to the actual sources. Well, that wasn't how it was going to work here. He was going straight to the lake.

'The details of who blew up the magazine out there might just be worth buying. But they'd be expensive.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Morando raised his eyebrows. 'I have a source to the captain-general's innermost secrets. For a price I can let you into them. It's as simple as that.'

Fianelli shrugged. 'And why would I want to know his secrets? Now do you want to buy, or just talk rubbish?'

'I'm not buying. I'm selling.' Morando turned and walked out. The next move would be Fianelli's.