needed to respond with precision and accuracy.
A few heartbeats later the bully was unconscious at Harrow's feet, and Benito, huddled beyond, was peering up at the face of his rescuer with shock and stunned recognition.
Harrow gave him no chance to say a word. 'Move, boy,' he said gruffly. 'And next time don't go down dark places without checking to see if someone's following.'
The boy gulped, and scrambled to his feet, favoring his right arm. 'Yessir!' he gasped, and scrambled down to his destination as if someone had set his tail on fire.
Harrow saw him get into a gondola twenty yards farther on. Good. He was safer on the water.
Harrow considered the body at his feet, thoughtfully prodding it with one toe. He rubbed his knuckles absently; he'd almost forgotten to pull that last punch; and if he hadn't the bravo wouldn't be breathing. He wasn't sure why he'd held back, now; he was mostly inclined to knife the bastard and push him into the canal--
But that wouldn't keep others of his type from dogging the boy's footsteps. On the other hand, if he made an example of this bravo, he might well save Benito and himself some future trouble.
* * *
Some half hour later, Jewel dragged himself, aching in every bone, from the cold, foul water of the Rio del Panada. He was lighter by his sword, dagger, purse, and cloak--at least the terrible, scarred madman had slapped him awake before tossing him in. He clung to the ledge that ran around the canal edge, clinging to the step of someone's water-door. He clung desperately to the sun-warmed, rotting wood, not thinking much past the moment. He hadn't swallowed any of the canal water; but he was bruised all over. The crazy man hadn't smashed bones. He'd shown he was perfectly capable of doing so. Jewel was just grateful to be alive enough to hurt and shiver.
Never, for the rest of his life, would Jewel forget that masklike face, those mad eyes. Or the carefully enunciated words, spoken in a voice like the croak of a marsh-bird.
'Touch that boy again,' the mysterious attacker had warned, 'and the next time you land in the canal we'll see how well you swim without knees and elbows.'
* * *
'Katerina!'
Katerina looked up from the water, wary, startled. The last thing she wanted was to be recognized. It was that scamp, Benito. He had blood running out of his nose, and looked pale and frightened. Common sense said she should paddle away immediately. It was bad enough doing runs in daylight without extra trouble.
She stopped and he scrambled hastily into the boat. 'Give me a lift a bit away from here. Please.'
She sculled steadily as he attempted to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. 'You going to bring trouble on me?'
'No. Trouble just got itself beaten up.' Benito paused. 'But--yes. You'd better let me off. Schiopettieri are doing checks of all vessels. You got anything . . .'
'We're inside the cordon,' she said scornfully. 'Don't you know anything? Now where were you going?'
'Giaccomo's,' he said, gratefully.
Chapter 49 ==========
One casual question to two independent sources--Jeppo at Giaccomo's, and Barducci's cook Katia--had given Marco one simple, and odd, fact. The cheapest place in town for spices wasn't Badoero's. To the contrary, their prices were, if anything, more expensive. It was, however, the place of choice for wealthy women of Venice to buy their spices.
Rafael de Tomaso had been Marco's source on Capi Tiepolo. Marco had had plenty of reason to visit his new friend--his good news, for one: some seaweed you could apparently boil up and make a suspension medium for paints to achieve a marbling effect. It was one of those things Marco had picked up from one of his boat-people patients, when he'd mentioned painting. They claimed their father had done it, and he was a seaman from the far- off League of Armagh. That might be true. You could find blood of many origins on the waterways of Venice. But Rafael had been wildly excited by the idea, and begged him to find out more. So here he was with a bunch of dried seaweed. And while Marco was visiting, he'd asked Rafael if he could find out something about Capi Marco Tiepolo's background. The Tiepolo were, after all, an aristocratic family.
Though the Accademia student had been a little puzzled by the question, he agreed--especially after Marco told him that if it became any trouble to find out, he wasn't to bother. As things turned out, it was easy for him to resolve with a couple of casual questions to his own patron, carefully spaced out over several days.
