Fortunato Bespi! Of all men! If Sophia hadn't restrained him, Chiano would probably have rolled the man back into the waters. This time, with his throat slit and a weight around his ankles.
Fortunato Bespi! Even with his broken memory, Chiano had recognized the name immediately.
Bespi was notorious. Perhaps the best--certainly the most ruthless--Montagnard assassin in all of northern Italy. A fanatic, by all accounts. A true believer, not simply a sellsword. A man so dangerous that, apparently, the Montagnards themselves had decided to kill him. Such, at least, was the explanation Chiano had eventually deduced from the words Bespi muttered in the days of his slow healing.
But . . . Sophia had been firm. So she and Chiano had hidden the badly injured man on one of the firmer reed- islands, under a basket made to look like a reed-hummock. Sophia, with her own eccentric 'theology,' had insisted that the spirits had brought Bespi to them for a purpose. And, over time, Chiano had come to half-believe it himself.
And was glad he had, for it was now clear that Sophia had been right all along. Who better to guard Marco from assassins than Fortunato Bespi?
It remained only to . . . begin the transformation. And he needed to begin immediately, because the transformation would take many weeks to complete.
* * *
Chiano found Bespi where he expected to find him--squatting on his little island in the reeds, staring at an insect. Bespi did very little else, since he'd finally begun recovering from his injuries. He stared at everything; studied the most insignificant things for hours on end. A man betrayed by the cause he had devoted his life to was trying, Chiano understood, to find meaning in something. Even if it was only the reason that an insect climbed a stalk of grass.
Chiano made no attempt to approach silently. It would have been pointless, anyway. Whatever else Bespi had lost, he had certainly not lost his assassin's reflexes and senses. By the time Chiano appeared in the little clearing where Bespi squatted, the former assassin was awaiting his arrival. Staring at him with the same intentness he stared at everything.
Bespi wanted reasons. Chiano would give them to him.
He held out his hand. 'You must begin to eat these also now. With the other food we bring you.'
Bespi's burn-scarred face held no expression. He simply stared at the fly agaric and belladonna in Chiano's outstretched palm. He said nothing.
'You are not who you think you are,' continued Chiano softly. 'I have discovered your true name and your true purpose, in my visions. Now you must discover them also. These will help.'
He said nothing further. Simply allowed Bespi the time to examine the possibility of reasons.
Eventually, as Chiano had known he would, Bespi reached out and took the substances. He did not ingest them, simply held them in a loose fist. But Chiano knew that Bespi would begin eating them with his next meal.
There was no expression on the assassin's face. Chiano had not expected to see one. Bespi was an empty man; Chiano would fill him.
He felt some qualms in so doing, but not many. It was, after all, mostly a change in orientation, not in nature. This, without a doubt, was what the Goddess had intended when She'd caused Bespi to be stranded out here. Chiano was sure of it. He rose, and began to turn away. He would return later that night, once Bespi was well into the trance, and begin the transformation.
Bespi's first and only words that day stopped him. 'What is my true name, then?' he asked, in a whisper. 'They told me it was Fortunato Bespi.'
Chiano hesitated. Then, squared his shoulders and turned back to meet the hollow eyes. 'They lied. Your true name is Harrow.'
'A hard name,' murmured Bespi. His lips seemed to tighten. But not with distaste so much as-- anticipation.
Chapter 4 =========
Kat closed the door of the Church of St. Hypatia di Hagia Sophia behind her. It shut off the riot of the Feast quite as effectively as one of her old tutor Dottore Marina's silence-spells would have done. The thought, as always, brought melancholy. She missed the dottore terribly. Still, after all these years.
This was a church designed to be full of light and space; the floor was of cream-colored stone, the timbers and woodwork of light ash. Even the wall frescos were painted so that the background colors recalled the white
