He settled himself a bit more comfortably, and thought about the warning the boy had delivered. That was something he hadn't thought of; he hadn't considered Caesare Aldanto except as a fellow guardian.
Better make sure not to ever let him get a look at me, he decided thoughtfully. Even as scarred up as I am, he might recognize me. And he won't be seeing Harrow--he'll be seeing Fortunato Bespi. A threat. And I know damned well how Caesare Aldanto responds to threats.
Then he grinned in the dark, his lips curling like stiff, old leather. No threats from me, Caesare Aldanto, we're on the same side, as it happens. Just like old times. But Francesco . . . you bastard, you--
His grin turned into a feral snarl. Let's just see you try and get past Caesare and me together, Milord Francesco Aleri. Let's just see you get at the boy through me. I might leave enough for Caesare Aldanto to play with, after.
Chapter 47 ==========
Marco had another mission tonight, besides that of dealing with the man who called himself Harrow. He'd had a suspicion for some time that there was something not quite right in the Ventuccio books; today that suspicion had become a certainty. And it was something that might well be very valuable to Caesare Aldanto. Maybe valuable enough to repay what Aldanto had spent for his sake.
When he locked the front door and listened for signs of life in the apartment beyond, he heard footsteps in the kitchen; shod footsteps with a certain lightness to them. Only one of the four living in this apartment wore shoes on a regular basis; so Caesare was home, and puttering about in the kitchen again. Well enough. Marco always preferred to accost him back there, it was a friendlier place--small, tiled in a cheerful terracotta, and always warm--than the sitting room.
He padded down the hall to the rear of the apartment and stood, quiet as you please, in the doorway of the kitchen, waiting for Caesare to notice him. He'd been trying to imitate the wallpaper ever since the disaster of this winter, doing his level best to become invisible whenever he was in the apartment. He'd evidently gotten quite successful at it, for Aldanto got halfway through his finocchio soup before he noticed Marco standing there, twisting his cap nervously in his hands.
'Marco, I almost didn't see you! Are you hungry? There's enough for you if--' He looked, then looked again, and frowned. 'Have you got something on your mind?'
'It's--something I think you ought to know, Milord Caesare,' Marco replied quietly, edging into the cone of light cast by the oil lamp above the table.
'Lord, boy, don't tell me you've been writing poetry again,' Aldanto groaned, putting both the bread and the spoon down. 'It's been a long day; I don't think I could handle another romantic crisis.'
Marco blushed, but took heart at the ghost of good humor in Aldanto's eye. 'No, Caesare, it's--there's something funny going on at Ventuccio.'
Aldanto grimaced, and shoved his chair back a bit. 'Marco, I'd be very much surprised if there wasn't 'something funny' going on there. Half this damn town smuggles.'
'It isn't that--I mean, they tell us what not to see, if you catch my meaning.' Marco bit his lip as he struggled to communicate what he had discovered in a way that Aldanto would understand. 'This is something else; it's different. I'd swear on my life it's something that Ventuccio doesn't know is going on. It's something I sort of ran into in the books. I don't think anybody else would notice, because nobody else remembers these things like I do.'
Now Caesare looked serious, and very much interested. He quirked one finger at Marco. 'Come over here and sit where I can see you--'
Marco obeyed, pulling out the chair next to Aldanto's and plopping into it. Aldanto shoved his food aside and clasped his hands quietly on the table before him. Marco imitated his pose without really thinking about it.
Aldanto took a deep breath. 'I've got good cause to know about that memory of yours; I don't know that I've ever seen it play tricks. So what is it that you've uncovered?'
'About twice a month,' Marco replied, picking his words with care, 'there are three or four fewer tax stamp receipts than there are items on the bill of lading inventory, which is when things go into the warehouse. But there's exactly the same number as on the warehousing inventory, when things go out. There's no discrepancy in the bill of lading and what's been paid for, and no calls for reimbursement from clients, so there's no reason for Ventuccio to go back-checking the books; so far as they figure, they've been paid in full, everything's okay. The way things go is this--the bill of lading gets checked off at the warehouse door when the ship gets unloaded. That's the first time they make a count. Then the Doge's official in charge of duties inspects the goods, stamps each thing when it comes back out again; that's the second time. That way nobody can swipe stuff from the warehouse with the tax stamp on it an' resell it.'
'Huh.' Aldanto looked very thoughtful. 'So--somebody is bringing something in, paying Ventuccio for it, then 'losing' it before it gets duty paid on it.'
Marco nodded. 'Or before it gets inspected. That's what it looks like to me, milord.'
