He risked a look. He could see men with brands, running down the length of the wall; running back in the direction he'd come from. He trod water, watching. Even from here he could see the barrels were still on the beach. They'd failed to explode. His powder trail hadn't worked. The explosion must have been the barrel he'd opened . . . obviously there'd been a powder trail to that too! That accidental powder trail had worked. Well, there was nothing for it now but to swim on. They'd not expect someone to go on swimming away from the Hungarian lines.
* * *
By the time Benito got to the ledge, swimming was just about too much of an effort. Once he'd hauled himself out of the water and onto it, his strength was gone. He was exhausted. Too tired to contemplate a sixty- foot climb on greasy limestone with anything but dread.
But it had to be done. It seemed like an awfully long way. Benito hugged himself, and danced up and down on the ledge trying to get warm. He wasn't succeeding well. But the sky was definitely paling—he wanted to be up this corner and over the wall before dawn or he was going to have a long wait on this ledge for nightfall. And he might be visible in daylight from the tower windows.
He began bridging his way up, one foot and one hand on either side of the corner, balancing between them. Fortunately it was a very nonstrenuous technique. A trick of balance, merely. Benito edged his way upwards toward the faint dark edge of the wall-top. He paused just below it, listening, although all he wanted to do was to get over that edge and rest. But there was no point in dying just yet. Not for the sake of a few dozen heartbeats.
Never had the top of even the most difficult building felt quite this satisfying to reach. Benito didn't walk away. He crawled to the stair . . . down it . . . To the deep shadows beside a building. He lay there for some time, trying to breathe quietly and gather himself up.
He was in, and almost home. Less likely to be shot, anyway. But he didn't want to end up in jail again, either.
So: Where did he go? Getting into the governor's palace like this was not going to be easy. Tiredly, his mind turned automatically to Maria. She wouldn't mind if he turned up half dead on her doorstep. And then . . . well, maybe that husband of hers—or a note to Manfred. Or Francesca . . . or . . .
He was too tired to think coherently. He stumbled through the narrow lanes, the dawn bell competing with the Hungarian cannon. He passed a few soldiers, coming off duty, yawning. One of them made a comment, but Benito simply wandered on. He obviously looked mad or drunk, but harmless, because they didn't follow after him.
He got there. The door was closed—a drift of sand across the doorsill. The shutters were still tight, closed although the other houses were now coming to life. He knocked.
There was no reply.
He peered down the narrow passage that led to the back yard. That goat of hers had harassed passers-by from here. There was no goat, today. The place had that 'nobody-lives-here' look.
Benito sat down on the steps. The doorknob was unpolished. The steps were full of wind-blown debris. Maria would never have allowed them to look like that.
A gray-haired old woman peered at him. 'Who are you?'
'Uh. Benito. I'm looking for Maria and . . . and Umberto.' Here he was, without even a shirt, in salt-stained breeches, his body and face muddy. He wished he'd thought to wash when he'd been in the sea. Some of it obviously had washed away, but he'd chosen that fine-grained clay that needed hard rubbing. She'd think he was some kind of lunatic. However, looking at the old woman, he could see she really didn't seem to be all there herself. She'd made up half her face. The effect was a little odd, especially when added to the unfocused-looking eyes.
She sniffed, looking about to cry. 'They've gone. The young man was shot. They've gone with that gorgeous baby. Like my baby. Babies always go . . .' She wandered off, seemingly having forgotten all about him.
Benito took a deep breath and pulled himself together. First things first. He needed to get off the street. He'd been plain lucky so far, but that couldn't last. Besides, the old woman's rambling had worried him. Upset him even more than finding the person he'd always relied on, known would be there as a last resort, wasn't. Could Maria and the baby Alessia be . . . dead? He swallowed and vaulted the gate into the tiny yard.
Definitely no one had been here for a while.
Benito sat on the back step and formulated plans as best he could. The worry had pushed back exhaustion. If there was no Maria he'd have to turn to his other friend.
The roofs.
* * *
Francesca got up early. In a relative sense, anyway. When she'd had the misfortune to have to survive life in the Red Cat she'd thought she got up early. Then along had come Manfred, and with him, Erik, and she'd finally understood that all things are relative. 'Early' to a hooker meant before noon. To a knight in training it meant before dawn.
With Erik away she'd thought Manfred might ease back on the predawn training. But he seemed to treat it as an act of faith.
Now, with the sun peeping through the shutters in long golden streamers, was a far better time. She swung the shutters open. And screamed.
It was a perfectly natural reaction to seeing someone dropping from the eaves and into her bedroom. It took her a moment of hasty retreat to recognize the dirty, half-naked stocky man, who simply sat down on the floor.
'Benito!'
'Yep. Why do you get up so late? I've been waiting for you to open up for hours.'
'Why didn't you knock?'
'And get shot through the shutters? I tried calling quietly but you obviously didn't hear. Where's Prince Manfred?'
'Over at the exercise yard. I'll send someone for him. No, I'll go myself. Is Erik—?'
