Francesco Aleri was good; Caesare had to give him that. Except for a momentary start, Aleri's astonishment was quickly covered. Not surprising, of course, for the man who was Duke Visconti's chief agent in Venice--which meant, in practice if not in theory, also the head of the Montagnard faction in the city.
Caesare, by sheer willpower, forced any trace of the weakness produced by the disease from his face. The grin that creased that face was purely savage. He could not afford to let Aleri suspect he might be ill.
And, besides . . . Caesare was genuinely enjoying himself. This must be a dreadful moment for Francesco, who had thought until now--and with good reason--that Caesare was safely dead. After all, Aleri had been the one responsible for cracking him over the back of the head and dumping him in the Rio dei Mendicanti.
That would have been the end of the matter for Caesare, if Francesco hadn't chosen to dump him off a bridge rather than rolling him over the side of the canal. But as it happened, there had been a small boat tied up under that bridge, and in the boat had been a young girl, alone, and . . . very susceptible to a handsome young man in obvious danger. Especially one who was as consummate an actor as Caesare Aldanto.
'You look prosperous, Caesare,' Aleri said pleasantly, taking a seat across from him. The motion was easy, casual, relaxed--but Francesco's back, needless to say, was prudently to the wall.
Caesare smiled. 'I do well enough,' he said, in tones as smooth and bland as unflavored cream. 'Despite the ungentle fashion in which I was discharged from my previous, ah, position.'
'You seem to have landed on your feet,' Francesco said, shrugging.
Aleri said nothing else, although Caesare had expected a retort, at least. From Aleri, who had been the one who had discovered that Caesare had been selling his information outside of Montagnard circles. Aleri, who had denounced him as a traitor.
Aleri, who had volunteered as executioner. As he always did, at such times. Aleri prized his position of being Duke Visconti's 'enforcer' among the Montagnards. It had been Aleri, also, who saw to the disposal of Bespi. Although, in Bespi's case, the cause had been an excess of enthusiasm rather than cynical peculation. Like many true believers, Bespi had eventually found the contradictions between Montagnard ideals and Milanese realities . . . too difficult to handle. And had then been stupid enough to send a protest to Duke Visconti.
Caesare toyed with his wineglass. It was only there to give him an excuse for being here; he didn't intend to drink the vile stuff, not on top of lingering illness. He actually had landed on his feet; if he'd gone headfirst into Maria's boat, he probably would have died anyway of a broken neck. As it was, he'd been limp enough to collect nothing worse than a few more bruises. He'd feigned worse, naturally, when he realized where he was. He'd have been a fool not to; he had no money, no resources, and a Montagnard death sentence on his head. Maria had realized as much the moment he landed next to her, and had kept him safely hidden, becoming more and more infatuated with him with every day that passed. For his part, he had seen to it that the infatuation was fed until it spread through her veins like a fever and overcame the tiniest vestige of her common sense. Love was the surest hold a man could have over an inexperienced girl like Maria.
He also made certain that she remained ever-conscious of the difference between their ranks. It made her unsure of her ability to keep him with her, without making her jealous. Jealousy might break the spell he had over her; self-doubt and the uncertainty of being worthy of him kept her eager to please.
'I believe you requested a meeting,' Caesare said lazily. 'As I informed your contact.'
'Not a meeting with you,' Aleri snarled softly. 'I was supposed to meet--' The Milanese agent broke off abruptly, muttering something under his breath. Caesare wasn't certain, but he thought the phrase had been: that idiot monk!
Assuming he was correct, Caesare pretended to sip from his wine and then added: 'What can you do, Francesco? And the German cretins call us 'auslanders.' As if they could find their own assholes here in Venice. But, like it or not, I am the 'idiot monk's' chosen man for the job. Whatever the job might be.'
He set the glass of wine down on the table. 'So why don't you tell me about it, and save us both the useless recriminations. I don't have any hard feelings, after all, despite being the injured party in the affair.'
Aleri's features were not distorted. The only sign of the rage that Caesare had no doubt was filling the Montagnard was the coldness of his gaze. 'Your services were always for sale, Caesare.' There was ice in Aleri's voice, too. 'Just like every other putta in this filthy city.'
Caesare did not rise to the bait; he'd been expecting it. Aleri was a true believer himself--which was odd, really, for a Milanese so close to Visconti--and that was his Achilles heel. He would do anything for faith; Caesare would do anything for money. They were two of a kind, and the joke was that Francesco didn't even see it. 'The job,' he prompted gently. 'And my pay.'
Aleri, Caesare thought, was very near to throwing his own wineglass in his face. But . . . the memory of how good a duelist Caesare was prevented him. As good as Francesco was with a blade, Caesare was better--and they both knew it.
Instead, after a moment's tense struggle with himself--for a moment, his face looked like a winter storm-- Aleri reached into his cloak and brought out a leather purse. He slapped it down on the tabletop.
'I'd have hired a dog first, myself. But this incident you're to organize and carry out is a fool's business anyway. If the German cretin wants to hire a traitor for it, why not? It matters not to me.'
