But this was no time for debate. 'Yes, Signor,' was all he said.
As Marco turned to leave, the Basque rose from the desk and said grimly: 'Stop. Since you chose to come here, I will have a few words with you as well.'
Marco froze. 'I d-didn't 'choose' anything, sir. My master--'
'How old are you?' demanded Lopez.
'S-sixteen.'
'Old enough not to think like a boy any longer. What is your name?'
The man's force of personality was too great to resist. 'Marco, sir. Uh, Marco--ah--Felluci.'
The Basque snorted. ' 'Felluci'? I doubt it. But if you chose a false surname--chose, young Marco--then you need to give a thought to all your choices. At sixteen, you can no longer use the excuse of being a 'boy.' You are a man, now. And a man chooses his own masters.'
Marco said nothing. Lopez sighed. 'Not a man yet, it seems. Very well.' He resumed his seat and turned his face away, studying a document on the desk. 'When you do decide to become a man, Marco-who-says-he-is-Felluci, I advise you to find another master. This one walks a path to ruin. If you continue to follow him, you will share his fate.'
The footman was lurking outside the door. He saw Marco off the premises, with no comments but a tight set to his face. Well, thought Marco, at least he was being shown out and didn't have to deal with Lucrezia Brunelli in a foul mood.
Benito was loitering in the street. 'I thought you were going to stay on the roof,' said Marco when Benito joined him.
'Came down to meet you.'
'How did you know . . . ?' Marco sighed. 'Never mind. You've been peering in windows again, haven't you? You'd do this side of Caesare's business much better than I can.'
Benito shuddered. 'Believe me, brother. This was one time I was really glad it was you. That's a scary guy. I've seen him before, that time when . . . never mind. Now come on. Let's climb up there and get moving if you still want to drop in at Barducci's tonight.'
Marco thought of Angelina. The thought was enough to get him moving up to the slippery coppo tiles. Benito was already walking up the rickety stairs that had given them such an easy descent. The roof was an easy jump and haul from there. Marco sighed. It wasn't the roof walking as much as the looking down that worried him.
* * *
Benito peered over the roof edge. They'd have to descend here again. Then he put out a hand to stop Marco. There were two people coming out of a sotoportego into the broad Calle dei Fabbri below. To discourage cutpurses and cutthroats, there were oil lamps burning in niches there. You could see the two men clearly, just for a moment.
They were both tall, and one of them very large. The large one was dark-haired; the other blond. The dark- haired man moved with a sort of solid determination, the blond with catlike grace.
'Knights of the Holy Trinity. Even if they're not in uniform,' whispered Benito. 'I saw both of them . . .' His voice trailed off.
An errant night-breeze stirred the mist and brought a snatch of conversation up from below.
' . . . shouldn't have come. This is my affair, Manfred.'
A snort. 'I think I owe her more for 'services' than you do, Erik.'
The two stopped outside a building with long Moorish-style arched windows, and knocked.
Benito gave a low whistle. 'Well, well, well. Who would have thought it?' He chuckled. 'So much for their holiness.'
Marco looked. It seemed a fairly innocuous if moderately well-to-do three-story building. 'What is it?'
Benito looked startled. 'Sorry. I forget that you lived in the marshes for so long. That's the Casa Louise. It's . . . um, a place where wealthy merchants and some of the Case Vecchie maintain their mistresses. I guess you could call it a bordello, but it's as high-class as it gets.'
