Someone loomed suddenly through the rainy darkness.
'Well, let's have it,' grumbled Maria. 'I'm wet and cold and I want to get home.'
And then someone else jumped onto the stern behind her.
Maria stood up hastily, reaching for her knife. 'Hey! Figlio . . .' Bright lights and stars exploded in her skull. But not before she'd seen that it had been Luciano Matteoni jumping onto the stern of the boat.
* * *
When she awoke it was to the betraying stench of the Casa Dandelo. But all she wanted to do was to be sick and pray the pain in her head stopped. Once she'd cast up everything that was inside her onto the rotten straw, blessed oblivion came again.
When she gradually awoke again . . . naked, cold, still sore, lying on the filthy straw a scant few inches from her own vomit . . . she was leg-shackled too. It was then that the true horror of situation dawned on her.
Casa Dandelo.
Slave traders.
Officially, they were not permitted to touch hide nor hair of Venetian citizens. Officially, their 'cargo' was checked. The poor of Venice knew the truth: the Doge and the Case Vecchie turned a blind eye. The Dandelos took what they could and if the slave might complain to the Capi di Contrada signing the cargo outbound on ship . . . they took out the tongue that might wag. Or beat the victim senseless. Either way, the Dandelos never released any of those who found their way into their clutches. They brought a lot of money into Venice, and Venice looked the other way. After all, it was only the poor and unwanted who ended up in their clutches. The Dandelos didn't want a fuss. As far as the officials of Venice were concerned, their depredations were nearly the equivalent of 'human garbage' collection. So long as it stayed that way, the Council of Ten and the Signori di Notte left them to it.
So: who would notice if she was gone? Well, Caesare would be waiting for his message. He'd panic.
A short, dark-visaged, thick-bodied man looked in at her. Instinct made her cover her nakedness. But this man wasn't interested. You could see it in his look. Merchandise. She was no more appealing to him than a bale of cotton would be. Calm now. Try to talk your way out. 'Let me out. I've got friends with contacts. Ricardo Brunelli . . .'
The slaver grave a sardonic snort. 'You wouldn't believe how many cousins of the Doge go through here. Anyway, the party wanted to know when you were awake.' He turned and walked off.
'Can I have some water?' Maria called after him.
'If the man says so.'
She was left to her fears. The minutes passed slowly.
The man who now entered walked like a cat. He was very like Caesare in that way. 'I've got some questions for you about Caesare Aldanto. I will get answers. If I get good enough answers you'll go free.'
And Caesare would die. 'You can burn in hell, figlio di una puttana.'
His hand twitched. 'You are lucky there are bars between us woman,' he snarled. 'Any more lip from you and I'll see that you end up as a whore in Aleppo, servicing a hundred fresh-from-the-desert rancid camel drivers a night. You think you're tough. You might last a year.'
She spat at him.
He wiped the spittle away from his face. 'It seems you need to think about it. Let's see how well you spit after a day of being dry.'
* * *
Tonio's whistle woke Marco. Sick child. Must be very sick to call Marco out of bed. Marco seemed to be suffering from a lack of sleep these days. He'd been to see Rafael the night before. He'd been for another private meeting with Milord Petro Dorma last night. He liked the balding, chubby, perpetually worried-looking Petro. He also got the feeling that, although Dorma would be funding his studies at the Accademia, Petro was using him as a window into the world of the tradesmen and canalers.
Again, Tonio whistled. Louder. Eyes bleary, Marco fumbled about, dragging on clothes. By the lack of light coming in through the shutter crack it was very early.
Tonio whistled again; louder still. He'd have the whole neighborhood awake in a minute. Benito thrust open
