the ones he could do without thinking, had all been of the sort to use against another mage or a creature of magic. When striking cold steel, they had fizzled and died, like a wet firework. That was all he remembered; the blow to his head that must have followed blanked out everything else.
For a while at least.
He had struggled since then, trying to put a face on the faceless enemy. Who could have hired these men? Obviously someone conversant enough with magic to know exactly how to disable a Magister Magus, a Grimas, a master of all three of the stregheria traditions. He had enemies, but none that virulent. Some were political; he was--had been--the spokesperson, not only for the Strega but also the rest of the non-Christian mages, the Jews and Moslems and that bizarre little fellow allegedly from the Qin empire. He had managed to get a single voice out of that chaos of conflicting personalities, even though for the most part it was like trying to herd cats and just as thankless a task. But the Strega were little more than an afterthought in the politics of Venice; he couldn't think of anyone who would consider him a political threat.
What did that leave? A mystery, a faceless threat, and somehow that unnerved him, unmanned him, and left him determined to hide out here and depend on no more than the little dribs and drabs of magic it took to just stay alive.
But then that poor child had shown up, running from faceless enemies himself, men who had killed his mother. And on him, guiding him--the Lion's Shadow, the sign that Chiano had not--then--recognized for what it was, because he himself was not aware that he was the wearer of the Winged Mantle. He only knew that Marco could be a magician if he chose, and through Marco, he himself could work the magic that would elevate life in the swamp above mere survival.
Until now. Until now . . .
Now he knew what he was--the force through which the Protector, the Soul of Venice could work, a Soul that went right back through the Romans and to the first Etruscan fishermen who had plied the Jesolo. The Soul that now took the shape of the Winged Lion of Saint Mark, but who was older than even Dottore Marina could guess. And the Shadow he had seen on young Marco was not just the shadow of potential power, it was the Shadow of the Lion, showing that Marco--if he lived, if he grew into and accepted his power--would be the next to wear the Winged Mantle. Marco might even--Chiano was not sure about this yet--be the first to assume the Lion's Crown as well, something which no one had done in centuries.
Now he knew why he had lived--because the Shadow had dispersed his attackers with the brush of its wings that called up terror, and called the undines up the canal to rescue him before the assassins could complete their business. Because the Shadow had told the undines to take him to Sophia, deep into the Jesolo, where he could live and regain his memories.
But there was no reason to follow Marco into the city, to go back. Was there? The boy had Harrow to protect him. He didn't need Chiano, nor did anyone else.
Except--
Except for the stories that came drifting into the Jesolo like mist, like the echoes of bells from the city, the stories that spoke of the sinister and cruel acts of the Servants of the Trinity--
Who would burn you, if they could take you, Chiano--
And of a monster who prowled the waterways and killed--
And what business is that of yours?
The shadow of wings brushed through his mind, reminding him that--yes, it was his business. It threatened the city. It was not just politics, but evil, that had sent him into the canal that night, not merely to serve as a warning to those who might think to challenge it but to rid the city of its protector.
Dottore Marina would have scoffed and taken up the gauntlet. Chiano had come too close to death. Chiano was afraid.
The truth is--
The truth was, he didn't know enough.
That's easily remedied, some small inner voice told him. He sighed. Yes, it was--except he was afraid of the remedy.
No more softness!
He stood up abruptly, and jumped down off the raft. It was not quite sunset; there was still time for magic. Sophia paid no attention. By now, she was used to the way he would just get up and go off somewhere without a word.
Sophia was more than a little loco herself. Odd behavior meant little or nothing to her.
There were places, even in the Jesolo, where there was pure water. Springs bubbled up from beneath the
