to get out of Marco. 'Si,' he agreed, after a long moment of stubborn silence.
He signaled to Marco to toss back the rope and poled back out into the current.
Marco headed back along the walkway, resuming his interrupted journey. His leather-soled boots made no sound on the damp wood as he kept to a warming trot. No bare feet in this weather, not for him or Benito--Aldanto had bought them boots when he caught them without foot-coverings. Another undeserved kindness.
Sounds were few above the wind; the occasional murmur of voices from above, the slap of waves on boats and buildings, the ever-present creaking of wood, canalers calling out to each other down on the water. Cold--God, it was cold. Weather for sickness, that's for certain; in the swamp, down on the canals, weather for dying, too. Winter would be bad this year, he thought.
Funny, this business with Tonio della Sendoro. It had started when Marco caught Rafael de Tomaso with a cut hand going septic and forced him to let Marco clean it out. Then de Tomaso had brought him a child with a bad case of the fever. Then Tonio had gotten into the act. Always children, though, never adults. Eleven, no, twelve of them so far. Marco couldn't resist a sick child--not even when they kicked or bit.
Soft heart to match my soft head.
No matter. Marco knew damned well he could no more see a child in pain and walk on, without doing something about it, than he could stop breathing.
Well, one thing for sure, no matter how badly he'd messed things up with Caesare Aldanto, there were a dozen poor boat-people or fisher-folk babies he'd made a bit healthier.
* * *
From across the Canale di Cannaregio, on the Ghetto side, the three priests watched the boy trotting away. Then, their eyes followed the gondola as it made its way up the Canale and turned into a smaller canal which entered the heart of the Cannaregio sector of the city.
'That boy has become a bit of a blessing for this poor neighborhood,' said Diego approvingly. 'That's at least the seventh child I know of that he's given medical attention.'
'Nine,' grunted Pierre. 'That I know of. Good treatment, too, by all accounts.'
Eneko's expression was grim; not sharing any of the approval so evident in the faces of his companions. 'He's also the same boy who brought that message to me from Caesare Aldanto. That despicable offer I told you about.'
Pierre and Diego's eyes widened. 'Aldanto?' choked Pierre. 'Are you certain?' asked Diego.
Eneko nodded. 'Quite certain. I was struck at the time, by the incongruity. Between the villainy of Aldanto and the boy's own face--the face of an angel, almost.'
'But . . .' Pierre lapsed into silence, for a moment. Then: 'I don't believe Aldanto is guilty of black magic, true enough. But I don't doubt he's guilty of almost any other crime. Treacherous to the core, by all accounts. A pure mercenary.' He pointed a finger toward the distance into which the boy had disappeared. 'Whereas he . . . He refuses to accept any payment, Eneko. I've spoken to that canaler myself. Tonio is his name.'
'It just doesn't make sense,' added Diego, shaking his head.
'No, it doesn't,' mused Eneko. 'Which is precisely what interests me the most. Why is such a boy working for such a man? Or--perhaps more important--why has such a man taken such a boy under his wing?' He cocked his head at his two companions. 'Aldanto is indeed, as Pierre said, 'a pure mercenary.' So what is his mercenary reason in this instance?'
His two companions looked at each other. Pierre shrugged; Diego sighed. 'I suppose this means you want me to investigate something else.'
Eneko chuckled. 'I don't think it will be as bad as all that, Diego. If the boy is a healer--' Eneko pointed across the canal at the Cannaregio district. 'You've met Father Mascoli. I introduced you to him just a few weeks ago. Ask him first. If the boy is as well known in this area as all that, as a lay doctor, Mascoli will know who he is.'
'The Cannaregio,' muttered the Castillian. 'The Ghetto's reputation is bad, but overrated. There are other places in Cannaregio whose reputation is . . . not.'
'I'll protect you,' said Pierre stoutly. 'From sin, of course. Footpads--you're on your own.'
Eneko clucked. 'The only danger you'll face in the Cannaregio is from cutpurses. And since neither of you has a purse . . .'
He ignored the glares coming his way. Insouciantly: 'Righteousness, brothers. Always the best armor.'
