'No more than I ever did. Could be anybody: slave-takers, Schiopettieri, even . . .'
'Milanese,' Chiano growled.
'Damn it all, no! Not Milanese; never Milanese. Milanese would be trying to help me, not kill me!'
'I'll believe that when I believe . . .' Sophia hushed Chiano before he could say any more.
'Fine,' Marco said, 'But whose mama was a Montagnard agent, huh? Who saw Duke Visconti's agents coming and going? So who should know?' It was an old argument.
'And whose mama was probably killed by the order of the Duke Visconti she served, hmm? Marco, leave it, boy. I know more politics than you do. Still, I notice you may have thought Strega. But you didn't say it. You off to give Benito a warning?'
'Got to. He's in danger too.'
'Boy--' This was another old argument.
Sophia chimed in forcefully. 'No buts! Ye're young; this ain't no life for th' young. We'll be all right.'
'She's got the right of it, boy.' There was a suspicion of mist in Chiano's slightly crazed eyes. 'The Words of the Goddess are complete now, thanks to you. You go--'
Chiano claimed the Words were complete about once a month.
'Look, I'll be back, same as always. Benito won't have any safe place for me, and I won't put danger on those as is keeping him.'
For the first time in this weekly litany Chiano looked unaccountably solemn. 'Somehow--I don't think so--not this time. Well, time's wasting, boy, be off--or They might find Benito before you do.'
Sophia's face twisted comically then, as she glanced between Marco and their dinner; she plainly felt obliged to offer him some, and just as plainly didn't really want to have to share the little they had.
'You eaten?' she asked reluctantly.
Marco's stomach churned. The fear and its aftermath made the very thought of food revolting.
'Grazie; but no. I'm fine.'
She smiled, relieved. 'Off wi'ye, then, ye'd best hurry.'
Marco went, finding the way back to his raft, and poling it out into the black, open water of the lagoon. In the distance were the lights of Venice. But the tide was out. He would have to pole the channels. At least coming back he would be able to run with the turn of the tide at dawn.
* * *
Lots of lights in the city tonight--lots of noise. Marco blessed it all, for it covered his approach. Then remembered--and shame on himself for not remembering before--that it was Solstice Feast. What night of the Feast it was, he couldn't remember; his only calendars were the moon and stars these days, and the seasons. By the noise, probably well into the festival. But that meant Benito would be delayed by the crowds on the bridges and walkways. That might prove a blessing; it gave him a chance to check all around their meeting place under the wharf for more of Them.
He poled all over beneath the wharf, between the maze of pilings, keeping all his senses alert for anything out of the norm. There wasn't anyone lying in ambush that he could find, not by eye nor ear nor scent, so he made the raft fast and climbed up into their meeting place among the crossbeams out near the end of the wharf.
The first time they'd met here--after Marco had slipped into the town with his heart pounding like an overworked drum, and passed Theodoro a note to give to Benito--they hadn't said much. Benito had just wrapped his arms around his brother like he'd never let go, and cried his eyes sore and his voice hoarse. Marco had wanted to cry too--but hadn't dared; Benito would have been shattered. That was the way the first few meetings had gone.
But boys are resilient creatures. Before too long, Benito was begging for Marco's stories again, and the tears only came at parting--and then not at all. But now the stories included another set--how they would find the agents of Duke Visconti; get Mama's message to them. The original paper was long gone, but the contents resided intact in Marco's head--and what Marco memorized was there for good and all. That was why Mama had taken him everywhere with her--when she'd ask later, he'd recite what had been said and done. And just as a precaution, Marco had made plenty of copies of that paper over the last two years. He made a new one as soon as the previous copy began deteriorating, and kept it with him at all times, mostly hidden on his raft. One day, they'd get that message back to Milan--and the Visconti would rescue them, take them home to Milan, and train them to be
