'But--Marco, he wants to be a doctor,' Benito felt moved to protest. 'I ain't smart, not that smart--what am I supposed to do?'
'What did your grandfather tell you to do? I know he sent you a note not long ago.'
Benito remembered, as clearly as if he had Marco's perfect memory, the words of his granther's note. It is your duty to take care of Marco. He has no talent for lying, no ability to deceive. This is not altogether bad, as there should be one in every generation who understands and believes in Dell'este Honor. But those who believe in the Honor need those who understand the price of Honor to care for them.
'He told me to take care of Marco.'
'Why you?' said Aldanto quietly.
'Because I'm not good--and the good ones need bad ones to watch out for 'em.' That may not have been what the duke had said, but it was what he meant.
'Ferrara is being squeezed. The Dell'este have not a sure ally in the world. The old Duke is a canny old fox. But Marco could become the Head of the Dell'este in exile.' Aldanto spoke intently, his blue eyes boring into Benito's. 'What then?'
Benito thought about the duke; the clever, canny duke, who understood expediency--and Marco, who did not--and shivered.
Aldanto leaned back on his pillows a little. 'So. You see.'
Benito nodded, slowly.
'Then, young milord, I advise you to go to Petro Dorma. And I advise you to ask him to train you in the ways of business. And I further advise you to learn, Benito Valdosta. Apply yourself as devotedly as you did to learning to pick a lock.'
'Si,' Benito said, in a small humble voice. He turned, and started to go--then turned back for a moment. 'Caesare--'
Aldanto simply raised one golden eyebrow.
'We're still in your debt. You call it in, any time--I pay it. Roofwalking too.'
'I'll hold you to that,' said Caesare, bleakly.
Benito nodded. And he picked his way carefully down the staircase, and out the door, into the dawn sunshine.
* * *
He sat on the doorstep of Dorma for a very long time before the doorkeeper opened the outer protective grate for the day. The doorkeeper was a withered old man who stared at him with a pride far more in keeping with a House Head than that of a doorkeeper.
'Away with you, boy,' he grated, looking down his nose as Benito scrambled to his feet, and clasped his hands behind him. 'We don't need idlers or beggars. If you're looking for work, present yourself at the kitchen.'
'Pardon, sir,' Benito interrupted, looking out of the corner of his eye at the huge pile that was Dorma, and feeling more than a little apprehensive at what he was getting himself into. 'Your pardon--but--I've got a message. For Milord Dorma.'
'Well?' The ancient drew himself up and sniffed disdainfully. But his disdain was short-lived.
'Caesare Aldanto sent me, sir. If it's convenient . . . I'm supposed to speak to Milord Petro. I'm--' He gulped, and watched the surprise flood the old man's face. 'I'm Benito Valdosta. Marco's brother. I think Milord Petro wants to see me.'
Chapter 73 ==========
'Who in the name of God is this Francesca?' demanded the Holy Roman Emperor. He held up the second of the two letters Count Von Stemitz had brought with him from Venice. The letter was quite a bit longer than the first, which consisted of a single page.
The count cleared his throat. Then, cleared it again. 'Ah. Well, as it happens, Your Majesty, your nephew has taken up with a Venetian courtesan. For quite some time now. He's kept the liaison more or less secret from Abbot Sachs and his coterie. But Erik Hakkonsen quietly informed me of the situation early on.'
'Hakkonsen allowed this to continue?' demanded the Emperor, his heavy brows so low that his dark blue eyes
