Marco closed his eyes, went into his calculating-trance, and presented the answer quickly enough to leave the man with a look of surprise on his face.
'Well!' said the man. 'For once . . . I don't suppose he can write, too?'
Aldanto had a funny little smile. 'Give him something to write with.' He seemed to be enjoying the man's discomfiture.
Marco was presented with a quill pen and an old bill of lading. He appropriated a ledger to press on, and promptly copied the front onto the back, and in a much neater hand.
'You win,' the man said with resignation. 'Why don't you tell me exactly what's been going on--and how you managed to resurrect these two?'
Aldanto just smiled.
The man took Aldanto off somewhere, returning after a bit with a troubled look and a bundle, which he handed to Benito.
'You, boy--I want you here at opening time sharp, and in this uniform. And you're not Valdosta anymore, forget that name. You're Oro; you're close enough to the look of that family. Got that?'
Benito took the bundle soberly. 'Yes. Milord.'
'As for you--' Marco tried not to sway with fatigue, but the man saw it anyway, '--you're out on your feet. No good to anyone until you get some rest. Besides, two new kids in one day--hard to explain. You get fed and clean, real clean. We've got a reputation to maintain. And get that hair taken care of. I want you here in two days. 'Oro' is no good for you. Make it--uh--Felluci. I don't suppose you'd rather be sent back to your family?'
'No, milord,' Marco replied adamantly. 'I won't put danger on them. Bad enough that it's on me.'
The man shook his head. 'Saints preserve--you're a fool, boy, but a brave one. Dell'este honor, is it? Well, Dell'este can usually deal with most things, too. Anyway . . . Right enough--now get out of here. Before I remember that I'm not a fool. Ventuccio honor's real enough, but it isn't that hammered steel version the Old Fox insists on.'
Aldanto escorted them to the door, stopping them just inside it.
'This wasn't free--' he told Marco quietly.
'Milord. I know that, milord.'
'Just so we both know, I'm going to be calling in this debt--calling in all those things you promised me. I may call it in so often that you'd wish you'd never thought of coming to me.'
'Milord Aldanto,' Marco replied, looking him full in the eyes, 'I owe you. And I can't ever pay it all.'
'Well . . .' Aldanto seemed slightly embarrassed. 'They say the one who wins is the one who is left standing, so by all counts you came out of this a winner. Be grateful--and remember to keep your mouth shut.'
Marco figured that that was the best advice he'd had in a long time.
* * *
Benito hauled Marco back to Valentina and Claudia before taking him 'home.' The Marco that came from their hands was much shorter of hair by a foot or two; and a bit darker of complexion--not to mention a lot cleaner and with a good hot breakfast in his stomach. It wasn't quite dawn when he and his brother climbed up to the garret where Benito had made his home. Benito gave him a pair of blankets to roll up in, and he was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted before Benito had gotten into his store clothes. Benito smiled to himself, a smile warm and content with the world, and set to one last task before heading back to Ventuccio.
He pried up a particular board in the attic, felt around until he located the little bag he had hung there, and pulled it out. Caesare's woman Maria Garavelli was bound to hear of this--and he reckoned he'd better have a peace offering. And there was that scarf he'd taken off that duelist to prove to Claudia that he was able.
* * *
After the Ventuccio let him go for the day, he waited under the Ponto di Rialto knowing she'd be by. When he spotted her, he swung down to hang from the support by his knees.
He whistled. She looked up.
'Maria--' he called. 'Peace, huh? Truce? Okay? Here's something for sorrys.' He'd knotted a pebble into one corner of the scarf--and it was a nice one; silk, bright red. He dropped it neatly at her feet, and scrambled back up
