He knew Angelina would never be up this early; the Case Vecchie kept hours like Caesare's. He trotted down the wet walkways, watching carefully for slippery pools, as the sun began turning the edge of the sky a bloody red. No fog this morning, but it was as cold as Brunelli's heart, and there might be more rain or even sleet before the day was over. The wind was cutting, cold and bitter. There were a few hearty souls about, even this early: boatmen, folk on their way to work or coming home from it. The cold kept the stink down; the sharp breeze smelled mostly of smoke and wet wool.
Once he thought he saw Claudia's raven head with her bold red scarf tied about her hair to confine it--so he quickly chose another way. Claudia could be damnably persuasive when she wanted to be. And he didn't want to be talked out of the only honorable course he had left.
Dorma's doorkeeper wasn't even awake--thank the Lord. Marco managed to slip his sealed letter to Angelina into the hollow block she had shown him to leave her private billets-doux in. Billets-doux she thought had come from the fascinating, dangerous Caesare. This was no love letter. It was, however, five pages long--and ended with a poem so that she'd believe it really was him who had written the others.
Now she'd hate him forever. It couldn't be helped. It wasn't in agreement with Valdosta honor that he leave Caesare entangled in a lie, nor that he let Angelina continue to believe that same lie.
So why didn't he feel better?
Now to Cannaregio, for his pack, then Giaccomo's.
Lying staring into the dark, he'd made some hard decisions last night. Given all the trouble he'd caused him, the best thing he could do for Caesare Aldanto was to cut his ties with the man. All of his ties, including the job with the Ventuccios, so not even they could hold that over his head.
He sniffed in the cold, his eyes burning and watering--surely from the early-morning woodsmoke--and rubbed his eyes and nose across his sleeve.
Woodsmoke. Sure. Be honest with yourself, Marco Valdosta, even if you've lied to everyone else.
This was hurting more than he'd ever thought it would. For a little while he'd had a family. A weird family, but a family all the same. It hurt to cut loose.
And he had to cut loose; and do it before he managed to do something that couldn't be repaired.
Benito could still be useful to Caesare, and if he ever needed anything Marco could supply, Marco could send it surreptitiously through Benito. Honor could still be satisfied that way.
But he needed some way--if he was ever able to poke his nose back into the city--to keep himself housed and fed. And, maybe, maybe, save enough to sneak into the Accademia . . . perhaps with yet another changed name. If he could find some way to make enough money--
Medicinal herbs weren't all that could be found in the marshes, after all. The other things that were abundant enough were bones. And the way Marco figured it, if someone was superstitious enough to want relics or charms, well, he might as well get the benefit of the money being thrown away. He only knew of one person, though, who might know where he could safely dispose of 'smuggled' 'relics.'
Giaccomo. Who scared the hell out of him.
* * *
Giaccomo's was just open; Marco went up to the front porch and through the door, open and aboveboard. He walked, barefoot because he'd stowed his socks and boots in his pack, silently and oh-so-carefully across the wooden expanse of floor. He gave over Maria's sealed letter, then asked of the man behind the bar in a soft and very respectful voice, if Milord Giaccomo might be willing to talk with him on business. Jeppo left the bar in the care of one of the other helpers and vanished briefly. As it happened, Milord Giaccomo evidently hadn't gone to bed yet--and was apparently willing to see the frequent bearer of so much of Aldanto's coin. Jeppo returned and directed Marco with a silent jerk of his thumb. The office.
The door to the office was next to the bar. Facing Giaccomo scared the liver out of him; to sit quietly at Giaccomo's invitation all alone in the cluttered cubbyhole while the dim gray light smudged the dirty windowpanes, and stammer out his offer, took all of the courage he had left. Giaccomo sat behind his desk, tall, balding--and big, most of it not fat--and looked at him hard and appraisingly, melting away the last of Marco's bravery.
* * *
'You want to sell relics, huh?' he asked Marco bluntly. 'Why?'
Marco could hardly think under that cold, cold stare--he stammered something about needing a lot of money, and didn't elaborate.
'What?'
