'What do we do?'
Maria shrugged. 'I go back to town. I've organized a lift across to the mainland for you. There's a pirogue heading for Mestre. You remember Tonio's cousin Alberto? His boat. He's down the glass warehouse at the end of the Fondamenta Serendella. You go there and slip onto his boat. Then in Mestre you cadge or buy a ride over to the west-side quays. You'll miss some time at work but Caesare has leverage with Ventuccio. I wouldn't come home with the parcel. See if you can get to Ricci's and deliver it to that Greek of Caesare's--Nicothedes. Now, I'm running behind schedule. I'd better get along or it'll look suspicious, and they might start wondering where I've been. They're probably going to search and harass me anyway. It'll keep 'em busy.'
And with a flick of the oar she was gone to face the waiting Schiopettieri.
Marco got himself along to Alberto's scruffy pirogue. Two hours later he was near emptying his meager purse to get across the west quays. He was going to be very, very late for work. He was also very, very nervous.
* * *
Benito, hurrying along to Ricci's, literally ducking in one door and out the other, had his plans go awry too.
He slipped the new hat that was Marco's pride and joy off his head as he got inside the door. This time of morning there shouldn't be many people around. The Marangona bell had only just started to ring over at the Arsenal.
Except . . . the pasticceria was full.
Full of Schiopettieri.
Benito, hearing the door close behind him, felt sick right to the pit of his stomach. Then just before he bolted, he realized that his only 'crime' was wearing his brother's hat. Personally, Benito had always felt the hat was ugly, but wearing it was still not a crime. Hat or no hat, the Schiopettieri weren't interested in him.
In fact they were discussing something he'd love to have stayed to listen to. Venice was buzzing with rumors about 'magical murders' and 'demon killings.' If he heard the horrified talk aright, there'd just been another. And this time it sounded as if someone had actually caught sight of whoever--or whatever--had committed the deed. No wonder the Schiopettieri were in having a drink so early.
As Benito wormed his way across to the side door that would give him access to an alley with some easy- to-climb beams, he picked up snatches of the conversation.
'--suckers like an octopus--'
'--blood everywhere--'
'--poor priest was shaking so much he could hardly speak--'
And then he was out, heading upwards to the rooftops. Later he walked along to work as usual. Which was fine until one of the older Ventuccio came and asked him if he knew why Marco wasn't coming in.
After that, it was torture. Waiting in worry and uncertainty always is. Where the hell was Marco?
* * *
Marco alighted from a barge-load of chickens at the Fondamenta Zattere ai Gesuati. To his relief, there were no watching Schiopettieri. Now it was just a short cut across the Accademia, take a traghetto across the Grand Canal, and off to Ricci's. He was already trying to think of a good excuse to use at Ventuccio when he realized he was being followed. Or thought he was, anyway, he wasn't sure. Someone big, in a black cloak.
This was even more frightening than Schiopettieri. Marco paused and looked back surreptitiously. He couldn't see the big man in the black cloak any more. Maybe it had all been a figment of his imagination.
Then again--maybe not. If he was being followed by an agent of the Montagnards, it would be someone good enough not to be easily spotted. The Montagnard and Metropolitan factions had plenty of skilled spies--and assassins. His mother had been a Montagnard spy herself, far more skilled than Marco at maneuvering in these murky waters. But that hadn't prevented them from killing her, had it? Had she, too, once been followed like this?
His panic was rising rapidly. A Montagnard agent. One of his mother's killers, now following him.
Marco rounded the corner into Calle Pompea and started running. The street was crowded at this time of day. Dodging between the pedestrians and the porters, the students heading for classes, and the barrows of vegetables, Marco made fearful time around the corner, doubling back toward the docks, and down into an alley.
He looked back. And he ran smack into someone who was coming the other way. He dropped the precious
