think its populace--and most of its senators--will remember that heritage. While Dorma has the smallest support base, and is not flamboyant like Brunelli, he is respected. You can find very few people who dislike him. And he has a reputation for hard, meticulous, scrupulously fair work--as you know.'
The Old Fox gave a smile that, had he really been his four-footed namesake, would have sent every peasant farmer who saw it off to sleep--uneasily, with their boarspear and their dog--inside their henhouse.
'That's all shaping up nicely, then. And now that Baron Trolliger has arrived . . .'
Antimo's smile almost matched that of his master. 'It's such a pleasure to have a capable Emperor sitting on the throne in Mainz.'
'Is it not?' agreed the duke cheerfully. 'Hohenstauffens of the past, more often than not, would have already been planting their great clumsy boots on the Brenner Pass. But Charles Fredrik is almost an Italian, the way he thinks. I assume he's offering us money, not soldiers?'
'Baron Trolliger hasn't been specific yet. He only arrived yesterday, after all. I doubt he will be, milord, until you meet with him personally. But those are the signs, yes. The Emperor, clearly enough, wants a proxy army here in northern Italy--just in case the situation in Venice proves to be as dangerous as he and we both think it is. And he's more than smart enough to see that Ferrara--little, innocuous Ferrara--is the logical choice.'
Antimo's smile grew very wry. 'Baron Trolliger's praise for the honor of Dell'este--as well as the cunning of the 'Old Fox'--has been most, ah, fulsome.'
'As it should be!' chuckled the duke. 'I've spent a lifetime developing that reputation, after all. Send the man in for a private audience, then, as soon as he's ready. Is he still cleaning his boots?'
'Probably,' replied Antimo. 'There's a man who genuinely hates to travel. His curses on that subject were almost as fulsome as his praise for Dell'este. And, I'm sure, quite a bit more heartfelt.'
'There's no rush. Negotiations will be lengthy, in any event. I intend to squeeze as much money as I possibly can from the Empire. Charles Fredrik can certainly afford it.'
Antimo nodded. 'And what about Marco? Do you wish me to take any steps?'
The Old Fox raised an eyebrow. 'No. Let him alone. Perhaps practice will improve his poetry.'
Chapter 31 ==========
Lies.
That was what his whole life had become, over the last few weeks. Lies and evasions and dirty little twistings of what scraps of truth he had told--
Marco's gut ached like someone had punched it, hard. It had ached like that for days. His throat was so choked most of the time he could hardly swallow. And his heart--if it wasn't broken, it was doing a damn good imitation of being broken.
Marco Valdosta, he who called himself Marco 'Felluci' these days, had good reason not to own to the Case Vecchie family he'd been born into. His Ferrarese mother had made sure of that with her fanatical Montagnard beliefs, and the long-buried secrets that went with what she had done to further the cause.
Still . . . this wasn't why he felt as if he must be one of the most pitiable sixteen-year-olds in all of Venice. He was looking miserable enough for Benito's friend Claudia to comment on it. Claudia had told him to his face that he was drooping like a four-day-old leftover bunch of finocchio leaves, and had wanted to know the reason. He hadn't dared tell her. He hadn't dared tell anyone.
Although he really didn't intend to be that way, his disposition wavered between sullen and terrified. He spent most of his time moping around like a moon-sick idiot. His brother had given up on him in disgust; Maria Garavelli and Caesare Aldanto only knew he was pining over a girl and being unusually peculiar about it.
Caesare was being more than patient, he was being condescending--which Marco was overly sensitive to just now. Maria, having failed to jolly him out of it, had taken to snapping at him frequently. They repeated the same scene at least twice a day. It usually started with him glooming about in her path, and Maria stumbling around him, until she finally lost her temper--
Then she'd explode, canaler's cap shoved back on her dark hair, strong hands on hips, dark eyes narrowed with annoyed frustration--
'Dammit Marco, can't you get the hell out of my way?'
Even the memory made him wince.
She snapped, he sulked, they both got resentful, and Caesare sighed.
