Manfred snorted. 'Witch-hunts! What witches? So far all we've 'uncovered' are a few quacks selling charms as magical as a brick.'
Von Gherens nodded. 'Who then took the holy test of faith before Venice's Metropolitan without fear.' He sighed heavily. 'I miss Father Maggiore. He was often a bit obnoxious, true, but--far better than Sachs. And he was familiar with Venice. He had knowledge of the city, spies who knew something instead of Sachs's absurd gaggle of informers. Since his horrible death, the Servants have blundered about like hogs in a salon.'
Erik's words were clipped. 'We're doing nothing more than spreading fear and mayhem, Ritter--and for no purpose. If Sachs were trying to, he couldn't damage the reputation of the Knights worse than he has. This is the most gossipy and intrigue-filled place I've ever seen. Everything we do is spread all over the city within a day.'
For the first time since they'd entered the church, Von Gherens smiled. 'True. But I daresay what you did tonight will spread just as fast--and go a long way to repairing the damage.'
'What we did,' insisted Erik quietly.
Von Gherens shook his head. Then, placed a thick hand on Erik's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. 'No, Erik. What you did. Had it not been for you, the rest of us would have allowed Sachs to drag us further into the pit. I will not forget it.'
The knight raised his eyes and glared at the dim figure of Sachs in the rain ahead. 'I will not forget,' he repeated. 'Von Gherens is a proud name. Respected by all. Feared by none save demon-ridden pagans. My family is in your debt as much as I am.'
He said nothing further and, a short time later, quickened his steps in order to resume his rightful place beside the abbot.
Manfred watched him go. 'Odd, really. He's also Prussian--yet so unlike Von Stublau.'
Erik said nothing. Manfred sighed. 'And me too, Erik. I will not forget either.'
Finally, a touch of humor came to Erik's face. 'Really? No more carousing? No more--'
'Not that!' choked Manfred. 'I meant the other stuff.' His great hands groped in the fog and the rain, trying to shape the distinction--and failing quite miserably.
* * *
It was only later, sculling home, playing over the events of the night that it occurred to Kat that whoever her mysterious customer was . . . she wasn't Strega. Her knife had been steel and silver--both metals the Strega would avoid like the plague.
But Kat was too tired to think too much about it. Getting free had cost her one ducat--and her scarf, which the wretched abbot had apparently kept--but the rest would soon be sitting safe in her grandfather's near-empty strongbox.
* * *
When she got home, Katerina collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the infinitely relieved. The gold was safe enough. Good pure unpunched Venetian ducats. The coin valued beyond all others in the world.
It was well into bright morning when she awoke. There was someone in her room, looking through her clothes from the night before. They'd just been dumped in a soggy heap when she came home. Reaction had set in and she'd been just too exhausted.
Her first half-lucid thought was that someone was going to steal the bag of ducats. She sat up and yelled before her groggy mind recalled that she'd taken the gold to the old man the night before.
It was only Alessandra, snooping as usual. 'There's no need to shout the house down! Just because you've spent the whole night with your lover and are too lazy get up,' she added tartly.
'Oh, go away!' snapped Kat, rubbing her tired eyes. It was certainly bright out there. 'Leave me to sleep. There's no lover--as you know perfectly well.'
Alessandra cocked her head on one side; raised a perfect eyebrow. 'Oh. What's this hair then? I'm going to look for men with honey-auburn hair with just that touch of red. I mean, I know you've got no dowry, but I didn't really think . . .'
'What are you talking about?'
'This hair from your pocket.' She held up something, golden-red in the sunlight.
Kat blinked. Hair?
